• 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

M  SAP  PER  '« 


*  j  HE 

HUMAN  TOUCH 


BY 

"SAPPER" 


AUTHOR  OF  "NO  MAN'S  LAND," 

"MICHAEL  CASSIDY,  SERGEANT," 
"MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GUNS,"  ETC. 


NEW 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


HI' 
h 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  1918, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I   THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 9 

II   THE  TRUCE  OF  THE  BEAR 140 

III  THE  AWAKENING  OF  JOHN  WALTERS  .     .     .  149 

IV  THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SEASICK  Cow     .     .     .  170 
V   GALLERY  No.  31 189 

VI   THE  BOOBY-TRAP 214 

VII    THE  BRIDGE         239 

VIII   THE  ONLY  WAY 259 

IX   THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH      .     .     .  274 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   HUMAN   TOUCH 


IT  was  about  the  size  of  an  ordinary  tennis  lawn  at 
the  top,  and  it  was  deep  enough  to  contain  a*work- 
man's  cottage.  It  was  a  crater — a  mine  crater. 
Suddenly  one  morning  the  ground  near  by  had 
shaken  as  if  there  was  an  earthquake;  dugouts  had 
rocked,  candles  and  bottles  had  crashed  wildly  on 
to  the  cursing  occupants  lying  on  the  floor,  and  IT 
had  appeared.  Up  above,  a  great  mass  of  earth  and 
debris  had  gone  towards  heaven,  and  in  the  fullness  of 
time  descended  again;  a  sap  head  with  its  wooden 
frames  had  disappeared  into  small  pieces;  the  sentry 
group  of  three  men  occupying  it  had  done  likewise. 
And  when  the  half -stunned  occupants  of  adjacent 
dugouts  and  saps,  and  oddments  from  the  support 
line  had  removed  various  obstacles  from  their  eyes 
and  pulled  themselves  firmly  together  in  order  to  go 
and  investigate,  they  found  that  the  old  front  line 
trench  had  been  cut  in  two  and  blocked  by  the  ex- 
plosion. About  twenty  yards  of  it  had  lain  within 
the  radius  of  destruction  of  the  mine,  and  had  passed 

9 


io  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 


gently-  a'Wa'y;  so  -that /instead  of  a  trench  to  walk 
along,  the  explorers  found  themselves  confronted  with 
a  great  mass  of  newly  thrown  up  earth  which  blocked 
their  way.  One,  more  curious  than  discreet,  climbed 
on  top  to  see  what  had  occurred.  He  had  even  got 
so  far  as  to  inform  his  pals  below  that  it  was  "Some 
'ole,"  when  with  an  ominous  'phut  he  slithered  a  few 
feet  backwards  and  lay  still,  with  his  boots  drumming 
gently  against  one  another. 

"Gawd!"  A  corporal  spat  viciously.  "Wot  the 
'ell's'e  want  to  go  and  get  up  there  for?  Don't  show 
yerselves,  and  get  a  hold  on  'is  legs.  That's  right; 


'eave  'un  in." 


In  silence  the  investigators  looked  at  the  price  of 
curiosity,  and  then  they  covered  up  his  face  and  took 
him  away.  And  somewhere  in  the  Hun  lines  a  sniper 
laughed  gently  and  consumed  what  was  left  of  his 
breakfast  sausage. 

Thus  did  the  crater  occur,  and  with  it  four  vacancies 
in  the  roll  of  the  South  Devons.  Viewed  impersonally 
it  seemed  a  very  small  result  for  such  a  very  large 
hole;  but  in  a  performance  where  the  entire  bag  of  a 
fifteen-inch  shell  is  quite  possibly  a  deserted  patch  in 
an  inoffensive  carrot  field,  cause  and  effect  have  taken 
unto  themselves  new  standards. 

The  main  result  of  the  crater  was  the  activity  pro- 
duced in  the  more  serious  band  of  investigators  who 
came  on  the  scene  a  little  later.  The  front  line  was 
cut ;  therefore,  the  front  line  must  be  joined  together 
again.  The  far  lip  of  the  crater  was  adjacent  to  our 
own  front  line;  therefore,  the  far  lip  must  be  held 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  IB 

by  a  bombing  party.  And  so,  through  both  the  walls 
of  earth  which  blocked  the  trench,  a  gallery  was 
pushed  by  sappers  working  day  and  night,  while  every 
evening  a  party  of  Infantry  crept  out  to  the  far  lip, 
and  sat  inside  during  the  night  watching  for  any 
activity  on  the  part  of  the  Hun. 

Which  brings  us  to  a  certain  morning  when  Shorty 
Bill  sat  at  the  bottom  of  the  crater,  and  ruminated  on 
life.  On  each  side  of  him  two  black  holes  appeared 
in  the  walls  of  the  crater — holes  about  six  feet  high 
and  three  feet  wide — which  led  by  timbered  shafts  to 
the  two  broken  ends  of  the  front  line  trench.  In  front 
there  rose  steeply  a  wall  of  earth,  along  the  top  r>f 
which  ran  a  strand  of  barbed  wire. 

It  was  like  sitting  at  the  bottom  of  a  great  hole  in 
the  dunes,  where  one's  horizon  is  the  broken  line 
of  sand  and  coarse  grass  above.  There  was  no  wind, 
and  the  sun  warmed  him  pleasantly  as  he  lay  stretched 
out  with  his  tin  hat  tilted  over  his  eyes.  The  fact 
that  there  was  nothing  but  fifty  odd  yards  between 
him  and  the  gentlemen  from  Berlin  disturbed  him 
not  at  all;  the  fact  that  he  was  thirty  odd  yards  in 
front  of  our  own  front  line  disturbed  him  even  less. 
The  sun  was  warm,  the  sky  was  cloudless;  he  had 
breakfasted  well;  and — this  was  the  main  point — he 
was  in  possession  of  a  letter :  one  might  almost  say 
the  letter.  It  had  come  with  the  mail  the  previous 
day,  and  as  Shorty's  correspondence  was  not  of  the 
bulk  which  had  ever  caused  the  regimental  postman 
to  strike  for  higher  wages,  it  had  occasioned  consider- 
able comment.  And  spice  had  been  added  to  the 


t2  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

comment  by  the  fact  that  Shorty  had  just  returned 
from  leave  in  England. 

Shorty,  however,  was  not  to  be  drawn.  Completely 
disregarding  all  comments,  scandalous  and  otherwise, 
he  had  placed  the  letter  in  his  pocket,  to  ponder  on 
and  digest  at  a  future  date,  when  separated  from 
the  common  herd.  And  now,  with  his  eyes  half 
closed,  he  lay  thinking  at  the  bottom  of  the  crater. 
Beside  him,  close  at  hand,  was  his  rifle;  and  though 
to  a  casual  observer  he  might  have  seemed  half  asleep, 
in  reality  he  was  very  far  from  it.  Almost  mechanic- 
ally his  eyes  roved  along  the  edge  of  tumbled  earth  in 
front  of  him;  his  brain  might  be  busy  with  things 
hundreds  of  miles  away,  but  his  subconscious  mind 
was  acutely  awake:  watching,  waiting — just  in  case 
a  Boche  head  did  appear  and  look  down  on  him  from 
the  other  side.  Shorty  didn't  make  mistakes;  in  the 
game  across  the  water  it  is  advisable  not  to.  More- 
over, other  people  did  make  them,  and  had  you  looked 
at  Shorty's  rifle  you  would  have  seen  on  the  stock  a 
row  of  little  nicks — cut  with  a  knife.  Those  nicks 
were  the  mistakes  of  the  other  people.  .  .  . 

Short,  almost  squat,  with  a  great  scar  across  his 
cheek,  due  to  faulty  judgment  as  to  the  length  of 
reach  in  a  bear's  fore  paw,  he  looked  a  tough  customer. 
He  was  a  tough  customer,  and  yet  those  grey  eyes 
of  his,  with  the  glint  of  humour  in  them,  told  their  own 
story.  Tough  perhaps,  but  human  all  the  while.  A 
man  to  trust;  a  man  who  wouldn't  let  a  woman  or  a 
pal  down.  And  as  an  epitaph  few  of  us  will  deserve 
more  than  that :  many  will  ask  for  less — in  vain.  .  .  . 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  13 

A  noise  behind  him  made  him  look  round,  and  a 
man  stepped  out  of  one  of  the  wooden  galleries. 

"Hullo,  Shorty,"  remarked  the  new-comer.  "You're 
here,  are  you?"  He  sat  down  beside  him  and 
stretched  himself  comfortably.  "Nice  and  warm,  it 
is,  too." 

For  a  moment  Shorty  did  not  answer,  and  then  he 
spat  reflectively.  "What  was  it  you  taught  them  guys 
at  Oxford,  son?"  he  remarked  gently. 

"Higher  mathematics,  Shorty.  A  dull  subject,  and 
sometimes  now  I  wonder  how  the  devil  I  ever  stuck 
it." 

"Was  it  much  good  to  'em?"  Shorty's  tone  was 
still  soft  and  mild.  "Were  you  one  of  the  big  noises 
at  your  school?" 

The  new-comer  shuddered  slightly.  "We  will  pass 
over  the  word  school,  Shorty,"  he  gulped;  "and  as 
for  the  other  part  of  your  question,  I  dare  say  other 
people  would  be  able  to  answer  you  better  than  I  can." 

"Wai,  I  guess  it  cuts  no  ice  either  way.  But  if  you 
intend  to  go  back,  if  you're  a  sort  of  national  insti- 
tootion  like  Madame  Tussaud's  waxworks  or  the  Ele- 
phant and  Castle,  you'd  better  be  making  tracks  for 
your  ticket  now." 

John  Mayhew,  sometime  tutor  in  the  realms  of 
the  purest  and  highest  and  deadliest  mathematics,  who 
would  keep  his  pupils  occupied  for  an  hour  trying  to 
follow  one  step  on  the  board,  looked  at  his  friend  in 
mild  surprise. 

"I  don't  want  my  ticket  now,  Shorty." 

"Oh,  don't  you?      I  was  thinking  I  could  come 


14  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

and  certify  you  as  being  insane."  Shorty  sat  up  and 
scowled.  "After  all  these  months,  training  you  and 
turning  you  into  a  man — wasting  me  time  on  you, 
showing  you  tricks,  an'  little  ways  of  making  the 
other  man  pass  out  first — you  goes  and  comes  into  this 
blinking  crater  same  as  if  you  was  blowing  into  a 
fancy  resturant  with  your  glad  rags  on.  Yer  gun 
hung  over  your  shoulder,  yer  'ands  in  yer  pockets — 
singin'  a  love  song.  Oh,  it's  cruel !"  With  a  hopeless 
gesture  of  resignation  he  dismissed  the  subject,  and 
lay  back  once  again. 

"But,  damn  it,  Shorty,  I  knew  you  were  here." 
There  are  many  undergraduates  who  would  willingly 
have  given  a  month's  pay  to  have  seen  John  Mayhew's 
face  at  that  moment.  Men  who  had  battled  on  paper 
for  hours,  only  to  confess  themselves  utterly  defeated; 
men  who  had  heard  John's  famous  remark,  "Well, 
gentlemen,  I  can  supply  you  with  information,  but 
I  regret  that  I  cannot  supply  you  with  brains,"  would 
have  given  a  month's — nay,  a  year's  pay  to  have  seen 
him  then.  Utterly  crestfallen,  he  contemplated  the 
irate  little  man  beside  him,  and  confessed  miserably 
to  himself  that  his  excuse  was  poor. 

"Knew  I  was  here!"  Shorty  Bill  snorted.  "You 
didn't  know  nothing  of  the  blinking  sort.  You  never 
knows  where  I  am.  There  might  have  been  a  crowd 
of  Bodies  in  here  for  all  you  knew.  Come  round 
a  corner,  I  tells  yer  again  and  again,  unless  you  knows 
yer  all  right,  with  yer  gun  ready  to  stab  or  shoot. 
Don't  go  ambling  about  like  a  nursemaid  pushing  the 
family  twins." 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  15 

John  May  hew  preserved  a  discreet  silence,  and  for 
a  while  the  two  men  watched  an  aeroplane  above 
them,  and  listened  to  the  'plop  of  a  British  Archie, 
which  was  apparently  trying  to  hit  it.  A  cannon-ball 
from  one  of  our  6o-pounder  trench  mortars  passed 
overhead,  its  stalk  wobbling  drunkenly  behind  it, 
and  from  the  German  trenches  came  the  dull  crack 
of  the  explosion ;  while  away  down  the  line  a  machine 
gun  let  drive  a  belt  at  some  target.  But  everything 
was  peaceful  in  the  crater:  peaceful  and  warm.  .  .  . 

"What  have  you  got  there,  Shorty?"  Mayhew 
broke  the  silence,  after  watching  his  companion  for  a 
while  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye.  Clutched  in 
Shorty's  hand  was  the  letter,  at  which  every  now  and 
then  he  stole  a  furtive  glance. 

"A  letter  from  a  little  gal  I  met  in  England,  son. 
Nice  little  gal." 

"Good.    Are  you  going  to  get  spliced  ?" 

"Wai,  I  dunno  as  she's  that  sort."  Shorty  Bill 
frowned  at  the  sky  "She  ain't  .  .  .  wal  .  .  .  she's 
not  ..."  He  seemed  to  have  some  difficulty  in 
finding  his  words. 

John  Mayhew  smiled  slightly;  for  a  mathematical 
genius  he  was  very  human.  "I  see.  But  perhaps  if 
we  never  do  anything  worse,  Shorty,  than  she's  done, 
we'll  not  do  so  badly." 

Once  again  did  his  companion  sit  up.  "You're 
right,  son:  right  clean  through.  They're  the  salt  of 
the  earth  some  of  them  girls;  and  I  reckons  it  was 
our  fault  to  start  with.  Care  to  see?"  He  paused 
and  went  on  shyly,  "Care  to  see  what  she  says?" 


16  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

In  silence  Mayhew  took  the  letter,  and  for  a  second 
or  two  his  eyes  were  a  little  dim.  The  cheap  scent, 
the  common  pink  paper,  the  pathos  of  it  all,  hit  him — 
hit  him  like  a  blow.  Two  years  ago  he  would  have 
recoiled  in  disgusted  contempt — the  whole  atmosphere 
would  have  struck  him  as  so  utterly  commonplace  and 
tawdry.  But  in  those  two  years  he  had  learned  in 
the  Book  of  Life;  he  had  realised  this  his  pre-war 
standards  did  not  survive  the  test  of  Death:  that 
they  were  the  things  which  were  cheap  and  tawdry. 
He  had  got  bigger ;  he  had  got  a  little  nearer  the  heart 
of  things.  .  .  . 

"DERE  BILL"  (so  ran  the  letter),  "I  likes  you: 
better  than  any  of  the  others.  Why  have  I  got  to  do 
it,  Bill?  I  hates  them,  and  a  lady  come  down  to-day 
and  give  me  a  track.  Blarst  her!  It  will  always  be 
you,  Bill.  Come  home  soon  again.  ROSE." 

"P.S. — Am  nitting  you  a  pare  of  socks." 

The  letter  dropped  unheeded  from  Mayhew' s  hand, 
and  his  mind  went  back  to  his  own  leave.  Then  again 
it  was  the  woman  who  had  been  all  that  mattered. 
She  didn't  use  cheap  scent  or  pink  paper— but  .  .  . 

"It's  a  leveller,"  he  muttered.  "By  God !  this  war 
is  a  leveller." 

"What's  that,  mate?"  demanded  Shorty,  picking 
tip  his  precious  letter.  But  John  Mayhew  made  no 
answer;  he  was  back  with  his  thoughts  .  .  .  back  on 
leave.  .  .  . 

A  little  picture  came  to  him,  a  picture  full  of  that 
cursed  cynical  humour  that  chokes  a  man,  and  then 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  17 

makes  him  laugh — with  the  laughter  of  a  man  who 
is  in  the  pit.  .  .  . 

The  man  had  driven  up  in  a  taxi  just  in  front  of 
him.  He  got  out  and  his  wife  stood  by  him  while  he 
fumbled  in  his  pocket  for  some  money.  Then  the 
girl — she  was  just  a  girl,  that's  all,  with  the  suffering 
of  the  world  in  her  eyes — leant  forward  and  touched 
his  on  the  arm. 

"I  think,  Bob,  I'd  like  him  to  wait,  old  boy.  I  don't 
want  to  have  to  go  looking  round  for  one, 
after.  .  .  . 

He  looked  at  her,  and  she  looked  away  quickly — 
too  quickly.  Instinctively  his  hand  went  out  towards 
her;  then  it  dropped  to  his  side,  and  he  turned  to 
the  driver. 

"Will  you  wait  for  this  lady?  I'm  going  off  by 
the  leave  train."  He  took  his  bag  from  the  man  and 
grinned  gently  at  his  wife.  "Jolly  good  idea  of  yours, 
old  thing.  Let's  go  and  find  a  seat." 

Round  every  Pullman  were  gathered  small  crowds 
of  officers  and  their  friends,  while  the  wooden  barrier 
beside  the  platform  was  crowded  with  men  in  khaki 
and  their  womenkind,  each  little  group  intent  on  its 
own  affairs;  each  little  group  obsessed,  with  that  one 
damnable  idea — "Dear  God!  but  it's  over;  he's  going 
back  again." 

They  met  on  a  common  footing — the  women.  Wife, 
mistress,  mother,  what  matter  the  actual  tie  in  the 
face  of  that  one  great  fact — that  helpless  feeling  of 
utter  impotence.  For  a  week  or  ten  days  they  had 
had  him,  and  now  it  was  the  end.  There  was  so 


i8  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

much  to  say,  and  only  such  a  little  while  to  say  it  in ; 
so  many  things  had  been  forgotten,  so  many  things 
they  had  wanted  to  ask  about,  which,  in  the  excite- 
ment of  having  him  back,  had  slipped  their  memory. 
And  now,  the  system  was  claiming  him  again,  the 
inexorable  machine  was  taking  him  away. 

Mayhew  had  wandered  slowly  up  the  platform, 
catching  a  word  here  and  there.  A  small  child  held 
in  her  father's  arms  was  diligently  poking  his  face 
with  a  wet  finger,  while  her  mother,  with  one  eye  on 
the  clock  and  another  on  her  offspring,  was  speaking 
disjointedly. 

"Ain't  she  a  wonder,  Bill?  An'  you  will  tell  me 
if  you  gets  yer  parcels:  I'm  sending  them  regular." 

"That's  all  right,  old  gal.    I'll  do  fine." 

Close  beside  them  two  flappers  giggled  hysterically, 
with  their  arms  round  the  necks  of  a  couple  of  gunner- 
drivers;  and  pacing  up  and  down  a  youngster,  with 
his  arm  through  that  of  a  white-haired  man,  was  talk- 
ing earnestly. 

Mayhew,  his  seat  taken,  got  to  the  end  of  the  plat- 
form, and  leaned  against  a  pile  of  baggage.  The 
stoker,  smoking  a  short  clay  pipe,  was  leaning  un- 
concernedly from  the  engine,  and  the  steam  was 
screeching  through  the  safety-valve.  Then,  above 
the  uproar,  he  heard  the  girl  of  the  taxi  speaking 
close  by.  To  move  meant  being  seen :  and  at  such 
times  there  is  only  one  man  for  the  woman. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear!"  she  said;  "but  it's  been 
good  having  you  again."  She  raised  her  swimming 
eyes  to  the  man  and  smiled.  "I'm  not  going  to  cry, 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  19 

Bob — at  least,  not  very  much.  You  will  write,  old 
man,  won't  you.  It's  all  the  little  things  I  want  to 
know :  whether  your  servant  is  looking  after  you,  and 
whether  you're  comfortable,  and  if  you  get  wet,  and 
your  clothes  are  mended."  She  smiled  again — a 
wan  little  smile.  "You  once  said  you  couldn't  tell  me 
any  of  the  interesting  things,  because  of  the  Censor. 
Dear,  the  things  I  want  to  know,  the  Censor  won't 
object  to.  I  don't  care  what  part  of  the  front  you're 
on — at  least,  not  much.  It  isn't  that  that  I  want  to 
hear  about.  It's  just  you;  you,  my  darling.  And 
more  especially — now."  She  said  the  last  word  so 
softly  that  he  scarce  heard  it. 

For  a  while  the  man  looked  out  over  the  network 
of  lines  into  the  blue  of  the  summer's  morning.  To 
save  his  life  at  the  moment  he  could  not  have  spoken 
without  breaking  down,  and  as  a  nation  we  do  not 
break  down  in  public.  The  night  before,  in  the  hotel 
where  they  were  staying — well,  that  is  different  per- 
haps. And  the  place  on  which  we  stand  is  Holy 
Ground — so  let  us  leave  it  at  that.  .  .  . 

"Of  course  I'll  write,  old  thing,"  he  got  out  after  a 
bit,  and  his  tone  was  almost  flippant.  "I  always  do 
write — pages  of  drivel." 

An  Australian  beside  him  was  kissing  a  girl  whose 
painted  cheeks  told  their  own  tale. 

"Here's  a  quid,  Kid,"  he  was  saying.  "You'd  better 
take  it;  it's  about  the  lot  I've  got  left." 

"I  don't  want  it,  Bill."  The  girl  pushed  it  away. 
"Oh,  my  God,  what  a  bloody  thing  this  war  is !  Have 


20  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

I  made  you  happy,  old  man  ?"  She  clung  to  his  arm, 
and  the  soldier  looked  down  into  her  eyes  quizzically. 

"Yes,  Kid.  You've  made  me  happy  right  enough." 
He  tilted  up  her  face  with  his  hand  and  kissed  her 
lips.  "Poor  Kid,"  he  muttered.  "You've  got  a  rotten 
life,  my  gal — and  you're  white  inside.  Take  the  bally 
flimsy ;  I  wish  I  could  make  it  more.  I'd  like  to  think 
you  could  take  a  bit  of  a  rest.  There,  there — don't 
cry :  I'll  come  and  see  you  again  in  six  months,  or  may 
be  a  year." 

They  moved  away,  and  John  Mayhew  followed  them 
with  his  eyes.  "Pages  of  drivel,"  he  repeated  mechan- 
ically. "God !  but  this  is  the  devil  for  women." 

"Take  your  seats,  please."  The  guard's  voice  rose 
above  the  din. 

"Good-bye,  my  darling,  and  God  bless  you."  For 
just  a  moment  he  watched  the  man  called  Bob  hold 
her  two  hands,  and  with  his  eyes  tell  her  the  things 
which  it  is  not  given  to  mortals  to  say.  Then  he 
kissed  her  on  the  lips,  and  without  a  word  she  turned 
and  left  him.  Once  she  looked  back  and  waved — a 
little  flash  of  white  fluttering  for  an  instant  out  of  the 
crowd.  And  then  a  kindly  taxi  driver  helped  her  to 
find  the  step  she  couldn't  see;  and  the  curtain  had 
rung  down  once  again.  .  .  . 

"It's  different  for  me.  No  one  else  can  feel  quite 
as  we  do;  no  one  else  can  love  quite  as  much." 
With  so  many  that  thought  is  predominant;  to  so 
many  it  seems  so  real. 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  21 

My  lady,  go  down  on  your  knees  and  thank  your 
God  that  it  isn't  different  for  you — that  it's  just 
the  same.  You  don't  think  so  now,  but  it's  true  never- 
theless. To  you — just  now  life  seems  utterly  incon- 
ceivable without  him.  To-day  it  seems  hideous  that 
forget  fulness  can  come  to  those  we  love — if  the  worst 
occurs.  But  the  greatest  gift  of  God  is  that  it  does 
come — in  time.  .  .  . 

And  never  forget,  lady,  that  his  understanding  is 
greater  after  than  before.  He  wouldn't  have  you 
suffer ;  he  wouldn't  have  you  grieve — too  much.  Just 
for  a  little  perhaps — but  not  too  long.  He  under- 
stands ;  believe  me,  he  understands.  You're  not  being 
disloyal.  .  .  . 

"What  d'yer  think  of  the  little  gal's  letter,  mate?" 
Shorty  Bill's  voice  broke  in  on  Mayhew's  reverie. 
"She  ain't  altogether  a  devil  dodger's  wife,  I  suppose, 
but  she's  white :  white  clean  through." 

"And  nothing  else  matters  this  outfit,  Shorty/' 
John  May  hew  smiled  thoughtfully.  "We  were  getting 
just  a  bit  above  ourselves  before  the  war.  We  were 
thinking  in  'isms.  You  can  take  it  from  me,  old 
man,  most  of  these  damned  rituals  amount  to  a  snow- 
ball in  hell  when  you  come  to  the  goods.  We  were 
getting  a  bit  too  complicated,  Shorty;  we've  got  to 
get  simple  again.  We've  got  the  goods  here,  and  I 
don't  give  a  ten  cent  piece  whether  a  man's  a  Catholic 
or  a  sun  worshipper  if  he  just  sees  straight,  plays 
the  game,  and  takes  his  gruel  without  whining." 

"I  guess  you're  right,   son."     Shorty  produced  a 


22  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

dangerous  looking  pipe.  "But  speaking  of  being 
simple,  there's  a  little  thing  I  want  to  show  you, 
which  is  an  improvement  on  that  throttle  hold  under 
the  ear.  An'  it's  as  easy  as  falling  off  a  log.  What  the 
devil  are  you  laughing  at?" 

John  Mayhew  controlled  himself  with  an  effort. 
"You're  never  heard,  Shorty,  of  the  law  of  inherent 
connection.  I  know  you  hav'n't,  old  boy;  so  don't 
bother  about  it !  Just  carry  on  and  show  me  this  toe 
hold  of  yours." 


II 

Now  with  Shorty  Bill  killing  was  a  science.  As  far 
as  was  humanly  possible  he  had  eliminated  chance; 
and  though  no  one  can  ignore  the  rum  jar  and  five 
nine  which  descend  impartially  upon  the  just  and  the 
unjust,  at  the  same  time,  where  it  was  man  to  man, 
the  betting  was  five  to  one  on  Shorty.  And  he 
specialised  in  making  it  man  to  man.  As  a  sniper 
he  had  been  known  to  lie  for  hours — right  through 
the  heat  of  the  day — disguised  in  dirt,  bits  of  brick, 
and  a  fly  barrage,  waiting  for  his  target,  immovable, 
seemingly  a  bit  of  the  landscape.  As  a  prowler  in 
strange  places  he  had  been  known  to  disappear  into 
No  Man's  Land,  when  the  great  green  flares  started 
bobbing  up  at  nightfall,  and  return  in  time  for  stand 
to.  He  never  volunteered  much  information  as  to 
his  doings  on  these  occasions;  he  rarely  took  any  one 
else  with  him.  But  sometimes  in  the  morning,  after 
one  of  these  noctural  excursions,  he  might  be  seen 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  23 

on  the  fire  step,  sucking  his  pipe  and  carefully  making 
a  nick  in  the  handle  of  his  own  peculiar  weapon.  It 
was  half  knife,  half  bill-hook,  and  a  man  could  shave 
with  it. 

And  so,  although  Shorty  at  the  moment  was  rumi- 
nating on  love,  he  had  not  come  to  the  crater  for  that 
purpose  only.  He  had  a  little  job  in  his  mind,  which 
he  proposed  to  carry  out  that  night,  and  it  had  struck 
him  that  the  crater  was  the  best  place  from  which 
to  conduct  his  preliminary  investigations.  It  con- 
cerned a  certain  sap  head,  and  the  occupants  thereof, 
and  Shorty  was  far  too  great  an  artist  to  plunge 
blindly  into  anything  without  a  very  careful  previous 
reconnaissance. 

To  him,  in  fact,  it  was  a  sport — a  game;  and  the 
sport  of  it  lay  in  the  bigness  of  the  stakes.  The  other 
man's  life  or  his — those  were  the  points,  and  no  ab- 
struse doubts  or  qualms  on  the  abstract  morality  of 
war  ever  entered  his  head.  The  game  is  beating  the 
Boche;  and  beating  the  Boche,  when  reduced  to  its 
simplest  terms,  is  killing  him.  At  that  Shorty  left  it. 
But  to  some  the  matter  is  not  quite  so  simple ;  to  some 
the  slaughter  of  the  individual  seems  but  a  strange 
antidote  for  the  madness  of  their  rulers.  And  theo- 
retically they  are  doubtless  'right.  The  trouble  is  that 
war  concerns  not  itself  with  theories.  There  is  no 
good  indenting  for  timber  to  build  yourself  a  dugout, 
if  you  can  comfortably  pinch  it  through  a  hole  in  the 
fence  round  the  R.E.  dump.  It  is  the  practical  side 
of  the  question  on  which  a  man  must  concentrate, 
before  he  dabbles  in  the  theoretical;  and  shooting  sec- 


24  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

ond  won't  help  the  concentration.     Thus  it  is  in  hard 
logic;  only,  as  I  said,  to  some  .  .  .  it's  difficult.  .  .  . 

It  was  in  a  dugout,  I  remember,  down  Arras  way, 
that  the  point  cropped  up.  It  concerned  killing,  and 
the  German  temperament,  and  ours,  and — one,  to 
whom  killing  was  difficult.  Leyburn  started  it — Joe 
Leyburn  of  the  Loamshires — who  was  killed  at  Cam- 
brai  just  after  he'd  brained  a  Boche  with  a  shovel  lying 
outside  his  dugout. 

"When  an  Englishman  sees  red  it  is  the  result  of  a 
primitive  instinct;  with  the  German  it  is  the  direct 
result  of  a  carefully  acquired  training.  The  inculca- 
tion of  frightfulness  is  part  of  their  military  system, 
and  from  the  very  nature  of  the  brutes  their  frightful- 
ness  has  a  ring  of  artificiality  about  it." 

Leyburn  paused  and  lit  a  cigarette.  Then,  after 
a  moment,  he  continued  thoughtfully :  "There's  noth- 
ing quite  so  pitifully  contemptible  as  when  the  bluster- 
ing frightfulness  collapses  like  a  pricked  bubble  before 
the  genuine  article.  You  can  see  the  man's  soul  then, 
pea-green  in  its  rottenness,  and  it's  a  sight  which, 
once  seen,  you  never  forget.  It's  like  looking  on 
something  rather  slimy — in  a  bottle:  a  diseased  an- 
atomical specimen — pickled." 

"Yes,  we're  a  nasty  body  of  men,"  remarked  the 
doctor,  "but  we  do  our  little  best.  Am  I  right  in 
supposing  that  there  is  a  story  behind  your  words, 
Leyburn;  or  is  this  thusness  due  to  port?" 

Joe  Leyburn  grinned  gently.  "You  unholy  old 
sawbones,"  he  answered  genially,  "have  we  lived  to- 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  25 

gather  these  many  moons,  and  at  the  end  you  accuse 
me  of  thusness  after  two  glasses.  No,  I  was  thinking 
of  little  Jack  Bennett.  I  don't  know  what  brought 
him  to  my  mind,  except  that  I  saw  an  account  of  his 
marriage  in  the  paper  this  morning.  Does  any  one 
remember  him  ?" 

"Sandy-haired  little  fellow,  wasn't  he?"  remarked 
the  second-in-command  reminiscently.  "In  B  Com- 
pany for  a  few  days  after  I  came,  and  associated, 
somehow,  in  my  mind  with  Plymouth  Brethren." 

"That's  the  man,  only  Plymouth  Brethren  is  a  bit 
wide  of  the  mark.  His  religious  proclivities  were 
quite  orthodox,  with  no  leaning  towards  fancy  per- 
suasions. As  a  matter  of  fact  when  war  broke  out 
he  was  in  training,  or  on  probation,  or  whatever  occurs 
prior  to  becoming  a  padre." 

"Reading  for  Holy  Orders  is  the  official  designation, 
of  the  condition,"  grunted  the  second-in-command; 
"though  to  listen  to  'em  after  they've  done  it,  it  de- 
feats me  what  the  deuce  most  of  'em  ever  read.  Of 
all  the  drivelling,  platitudinal  ineptitudes " 

"Hush!"  murmured  the  doctor.  "We  have  a 
second-lieutenant  amongst  us.  It  behoves  us  to  con- 
sider his  susceptibilities." 

Second-Lieutenant  James  Paton — aged  forty-two 
— roused  himself  from  his  gentle  doze.  "So  I  should 
dam  well  hope,"  he  remarked.  "And  if  Joe  is  de- 
termined to  inflict  us  with  his  yarn,  for  heaven's  sake 
don't  interrupt  him,  or  we'll  be  here  all  night." 

"I  can't  call  it  a  yarn" — Leyburn's  fingers  were 
drumming  idly  on  the  table — "it's  not  one  at  all; 


26  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

it's  only  a  sort  of  psychological  fragment  whicti 
bears  on  that  subject  of  seeing  red.  I  was  com- 
manding B  Company  at  the  time  when  young  Bennett 
joined  us,  and  so  I  naturally  took  a  fatherly  interest 
in  his  welfare.  He  struck  me  immediately  as  being 
a  thoroughly  good  type  of  subaltern,  and  his  principal 
job  in  life — the  platoon's  comfort — came  to  him  na- 
turally. He  was  a  real  good  boy — the  way  he  looked 
after  his  men,  and  they  loved  him.  Number  Seven  he 
had,  with  Murgatroyd  as  his  platoon  sergeant — you 
know  ?  the  fellow  who  stopped  one  at  Givenchy  six  or 
seven  months  ago." 

"When  Bennett  came  we  were  out  of  the  line — 
back  west  of  Bethune — so  he  had  lots  of  time  to  get 
settled  down;  and  he  was  with  us  three  months 
before  we  went  over  the  lid  again.  At  the  time  I 
had  no  idea  he  was  anything  in  the  Church  line.  He 
was  quiet,  and  I  doubt  if  the  only  story  I  once  heard 
him  tell  would  have  amused  the  doctor,  but  ...  Sit 
down,  Pills ;  you  needn't  bow. 

"As  I  say,  his  platoon  was  very  efficient,  and  he 
seemed  in  close  touch  with  them — was,  in  fact,  in  close 
touch  with  them.  Moreover  he  preached  the  platoon 
commander's  end-all  and  be-all  with  gusto:  'Kill, 
Capture,  Wound,  or  Out  the  Boche  and  continue  the 
practice.'  And  so  it  came  as  all  the  greater  surprise 
to  me. 

"We  popped  the  parapet  at  dawn  one  morning 
in  April  down  La  Bassee  way — small  show — you  were 
sick  I  think,  Bill?" 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  27 

The  second-in-command  nodded. 

"Everything  went  like  clock-work,  and  we  got  our 
objectives  with  very  few  casualties.  Bennett  had 
gone  over  with  the  leading  wave,  and  he  was  the 
first  person  I  saw  when  I  dropped  into  the  trench. 
There  was  a  dead  Boche  lying  in  the  corner,  and 
the  strafing  going  on  was  unusually  mild.  Bennett 
must  have  been  there  ten  minutes  before  I  arrived, 
and  I  was  annoyed  to  find  he  wasn't  doing  any- 
thing in  the  way  of  superintending  consolidation.  I 
walked  up  to  him  to  curse  him — and  then  I  saw  his 
face." 

Leyburn  was  silent  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  his 
forehead  wrinkled  in  a  frown.  He  seemed  to  be 
seeking  for  the  right  word.  "I've  never  seen  a 
similar  look  on  any  man's  face  before  or  since,"  he 
went  on  after  a  while.  "For  a  moment  I  thought 
it  was  fear — craven,  abject  fear;  but  almost  at  once 
I  saw  it  wasn't.  He  was  standing  there  motion- 
less, with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  dead  German.  His 
face  was  working  like  a  man  with  shell-shock,  and 
his  right  arm  holding  his  revolver  was  rigid  and 
motionless  by  his  side. 

"  'What  the  devil  are  you  wasting  your  time  for?' ' 
I  asked  him.     'And  what's  the  matter  with  you,  any 
way?' 

"He  seemed  to  make  a  physical  effort  to  tear  his 
eyes  away  from  the  body,  and  then  he  looked  at 
me.  'I've  killed  him/  he  said,  and  his  lips  moved 
stiffly;  'I've  killed  him/ 

"  'And  a  damn  good  thing  too,'  I  cried.     'What's 


28  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

that  to  make  a  song  about?  Get  on  with  your  job,  and 
put  the  men  on  to  consolidating/ 

"For  a  time  he  almost  seemed  not  to  understand 
me;  then,  slowly  and  mechanically,  he  turned  on  his 
heel  and  walked  away.  I  saw  him  once  or  twice 
again  that  morning,  and  he  was  working  hard  with 
his  men,  shifting  sand  bags.  But  on  both  occasions 
there  was  a  look  in  his  eyes  which  at  the  moment  I 
hadn't  the  time  to  try  and  understand.  Afterwards 
I  realised  it  was  horror." 

The  doctor  nodded  shortly.  "Yes,  to  talk  about 
killing  and  to  do  it  are  not  quite  the  same  thing. 
A  regimental  aid  post  would  be  a  good  and  useful 
experience  for  many  people  I  wot  of.'* 

"It  was  horror,"  went  on  Leyburn,  "the  horror 
of  having  killed  a  man — that  expression  on  his  face. 
He  talked  to  me  about  it  one  evening  after  dinner 
a  week  or  so  later!  We  were  alone,  and  he  was  very 
anxious  I  should  understand.  It  was  then  I  found 
out  he  had  been  going  into  the  Church. 

"  'I  saw  him,'  he  told  me,  'standing  by  the  traverse 
— that  Boche.  He  was  looking  sort  of  stupid  and 
vacuous,  and  his  jaw  was  hanging  slack,  as  if  he  was 
half  dazed.  He  was  fumbling  with  something  in  his 
hands,  and  I — well,  I  can't  say  I  thought  it  was  a 
bomb;  I  can't  say  I  really  thought  about  anything 
at  all.  I  just  saw  him  there,  and  we  looked  at  one 
another.  Just  two  ordinary  men  looking  at  one  anoth- 
er ;  no  heat,  no  panic,  no  nothing — only  he  was  a  Boche, 
and  I  was  an  Englishman/ 

"I  remember  the  boy  seemed  almost  meticulous  in 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  29 

his  analysis  of  the  occasion ;  he  seemed  to  be  trying  to 
make  a  case  against  himself. 

"  'I  don't  think/  he  went  on,  'that  my  life  was  in 
danger.  In  fact,  I'm  certain  it  wasn't.  It  was  no 
case  of  him  or  me;  it  was  just  two  men.  And  then 
suddenly  there  came  to  me  a  temptation  so  extraor- 
dinarily strong,  that  I  couldn't  resist  it.  I  don't  think 
—no,  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  have  that  temptation 
again;  but,  if  I  ever  do,  the  result  will  be  the  same. 
It  was  a  fascination — an  unholy  obsession — which  said 
to  me,  "You  can  kill  that  man."  And  I  did/ 

"As  he  said  it,  Bennett's  head  went  forward  to- 
wards the  fireplace,  and  he  stared  at  the  flames.  He 
was  speaking  in  a  lifeless  monotone  as  he  dissected 
himself  for  my  benefit,  and  I  didn't  interrupt  him. 
'I  levelled  my  revolver  at  his  face/  he  continued, 
'and  he  watched  me.  He  never  moved — he  just 
seemed  dazed.  I  could  see  his  eyes,  and  there  was 
a  film  over  them,  a  film  of  lifeless  apathy.  Then  he 
moved — suddenly;  and  as  he  moved  I  fired.  For  a 
moment  he  remained  standing,  and  then  he  tottered 
forward,  and  fell  at  my  feet.  It  was  then  the  unholy 
temptation  left  me;  and  I  realised — what — I — had 
done/ 

'You  see/  he  told  me,  'I  was  going  to  be  a  parson, 
before  the  war.  I  was  qualifying  myself  to  preach 
the  gospel  of  Christ — of  kindness,  of  mercy,  of  love. 
I  was  qualifying  myself  to  be  a  help  to  other  men,  to 
be  a  friend  who  guided  them  and  on  whom  they 
might  rely.  And  then  came  the  war,  and  it  seemed 
to  me  that  that  could  wait.  It  seemed  to  me  that 


'30  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

my  job  was  to  help  those  other  men  actively — by 
deeds  not  words;  to  lend  a  hand  in  getting  the  Hun 
under,  so  that  such  a  set-back  to  what  God  would 
have  on  earth  could  never  happen  again.  But  thought 
of  that  sort  is  abstract.  It  was  right,  I  know ;  I  feel 
now  that  I  was  right — when  I  can  get  the  concrete 
case  out  of  my  mind.  That  poor,  hulking  blighter 
the  other  day  is  the  concrete;  Prussian  militarism  the 
abstract.  The  trouble  is  that  to  the  individual  it's  the 
concrete  that  fills  the  horizon.  And,  dear  God/  the 
boy  got  up  with  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  'as  long  as 
I  live,  the  picture  of  his  face  will  haunt  me.  .  .  .' ' 

For  a  while  we  were  all  silent,  while  Joe  Leyburn 
filled  his  pipe.  Then  the  doctor  spoke  thoughtfully. 

"I've  seen  'em  like  that  too;  in  a  C.C.S.  some- 
times one  hears  a  man  raving.  It's  much  like  one's 
first  operation  as  a  student." 

"No,  I'm  damned  if  it  is,"  answered  Leyburn. 
"Then  it's  the  natural  dislike  to  seeing  blood  and 
mess;  with  young  Bennett,  it  was  something  a  good 
deal  deeper.  It  was  futile  going  over  all  the  time- 
honoured,  hoary  arguments,  about  a  sense  of  pro- 
portion, and  the  fact  that  there  is  a  war  on,  and 
we're  out  to  win  it,  and  that  there's  only  one  way  to 
do  so.  He  knew  all  that  as  well  as  I  did.  His  trouble 
was  that  the  individual's  outlook  had  swamped  the 
big  one:  he  was  endowing  Germans  with  a  per- 
sonality. A  fatal  mistake;  it  can't  be  done.  If  the 
other  man  surrenders — well  and  good ;  you  can  dabble 
in  his  personality  then  to  your  heart's  content.  But 
if  he  doesn't,  you've  got  to  kill  him;  such  is  the  law 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  31 

— and  the  fact  that  Bennett's  first  effort  appeared  to 
have  been  half-baked  was — well — unfortunate.  But 
as  I  pointed  out  to  him,  where  the  laws  are  brutal  and 
primitive,  you  don't  dally  over  their  execution.  The 
thing  has  got  to  be  done,  however  much  he  disliked 
it.  It  was  what  he'd  let  himself  in  for,  and  there  was 
no  more  to  be  said  on  the  matter.  Moreover,  if 
he  did  say  anything  on  the  matter,  he  would  be  failing 
in  his  very  obvious  duty. 

"I  took  that  line — it  seemed  to  be  the  only  possible 
one — and  the  boy  listened  to  me  in  silence.  When 
I'd  finished  he  shook  his  head. 

"  'It's  only  because  I  know  that  what  you  say  is 
right  that  I  haven't  gone  off  my  chump,'  he  said 
quietly.  'With  my  brain  I  know  you  are  correct; 
with  my  brain  I  know  one  can't  stop  to  talk  about 
the  weather  when  you  meet  a  Boche;  but,  with  my 
soul,  I  see  a  woman  and  some  kids  and  a  half -dazed 
stupid  face,  and  she'll  be  waiting  and  waiting,  and 
— I  did  it/  He  got  up  wearily.  'Don't  worry,  sir/ 
he  said;  'I  won't  let  the  company  down.  I  expect 
you  think  I'm  a  fool;  I'm  not;  but  the  individual 
side  of  war  has  hit  me  for  the  first  time.  And  as 
long  as  I  live,  nothing  will  ever  be  quite  the  same 
again/ 

"And  that's  the  end  of  Part  One.  Doc,  pass  the 
whisky."  We  waited  for  him  to  fill  his  glass. 

"Part  Two,"  continued  Leyburn,  "is  where  the 
psychological  interest  comes  in.  I  think  we  agree 
that  most  Englishmen  feel  much  the  same  as  that 
boy  did — though  perhaps  not  quite  so  strongly.  His 


32  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

case  is  more  or  less  typical  in  its  dislike  to  shooting 
the  sitting  bird,  in  its  dislike  of  killing  without  the 
element  of  sport  or  danger.  As  a  race  we  like  to 
give  the  things  we  kill  a  run  for  their  money.  And 
as  a  race  the  Huns  do  not.  With  them  it  is  merely 
a  business,  the  same  as  it  has  to  be  with  us;  but 
there  is  this  fundamental  difference.  We  do  it  with 
compunction,  as  a  matter  of  grim  necessity;  they  do 
it  without  thought,  as  a  matter  of  drill. 

''Had  the  positions  been  reversed  in  Bennett's  case, 
would  the  .average  Hun  have  given  the  matter  a  sec- 
ond thought?  And  so" — Leyburn  leaned  forward  to 
emphasise  his  point — "to  the  casual  observer  it  might 
seem  that  the  Hun  was  the  better  soldier." 

'"Quite  so,  Joe,"  remarked  the  doctor,  "but  he  ain't." 

"As  you  say,  doc,  he  ain't.  But  why?  In  that 
boy's  case  the  thing  he  had  done  haunted  him.  He 
felt  he  hadn't  played  the  game,  and  it  showed  for 
weeks  in  his  eyes  and  his  bearing.  Murgatroyd,  his 
sergeant,  noticed  it — and  Murgatroyd  was  a  shrewd 
man. 

''  'Let  him  be,  sir,'  he  said  one  day  to  me.  'He 
just  wants  a  bite  in  the  nose — like  as  'ow  a  terrier 
wants  a  nip  from  a  rat — and  he  won't  know  himself/ 
Murgatroyd  was  right. 

"It  took  place  on  the  Somme  just  beyond  Fricourt. 
I'd  taken  one  through  the  knee,  and  was  lying  out 
watching.  Suddenly  I  saw  a  Boche — a  great  hulk- 
ing-looking blighter — with  the  utmost  deliberation 
shoot  two  of  our  wounded  who  were  lying  in  a  shell 
hole.  Then  he  started  crawling  away  with  his  revolver 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  33 

still  in  his  hand.  Just  a  business — you  see — a  drill.  I 
was  reaching  down  to  pick  up  a  rifle  from  a  dead 
man  beside  me  when  I  saw  young  Bennett.  He'd  got 
up  and — regardless  of  the  strafing — he  was  making 
for  that  Boche.  So  I  pulled  out  my  glasses  and 
watched.  His  face  was  snarling  and  his  teeth  were 
showing  in  a  fixed  sort  of  grin;  and  in  his  hands 
he  held  a  rifle  with  the  bayonet  fixed.  The  German 
saw  him  coming  and  took  deliberate  aim :  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  foun3  out  after  he  got  him  through  the 
shoulder.  But  he  didn't  stop;  he  just  went  for  that 
Boche  with  his  bayonet.  I  saw  the  Hun's  face,  and 
it  was  white  with  terror.  I  saw  his  hands  go  up, 
and  he  was  mouthing  with  fear.  It  was  the  slimy 
thing  in  the  bottle  and  the  red  fury  of  the  primitive 
man;  it  was  fright  fulness  bolstered  up  by  artificiality, 
and  the  brand  that  is  spontaneous — up  against  one 
another."  Leyburn  paused  and  grinned.  "I  watched 
him  kill  that  Boche  four  times,  and  then  in  my  ex- 
citement I  slipped  down  the  side  of  the  shell  hole." 

"Which  is  the  reason,"  said  the  second-in-com- 
mand, musingly,  "why  we  beat  the  Hun  every  time 
when  it's  man-to-man.  Sport  versus  business,  leading 
versus  driving;  there's  only  one  answer,  old  boy,  only 
one." 

"Precisely,"  murmured  Second-Lieutenant  Paton, 
waking  up  suddenly.  "Waiter — a  lemon.  I  ordered 
some  to-day  specially  for  the  grog." 

But  then,  it's  absurd  to  expect  a  second-lieutenant 
of  forty-two  to  be  anything  but  frivolous;  and  any 
way,  the  digression  from  Shorty  Bill  is  unpardonable. 


34  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 


in 

We  left  him  at  the  bottom  of  the  crater  with  John 
Mayhew,  sedulously  inculcating  his  willing  pupil  with 
his  improved  method  of  throttling  the  wily  Hun 
when  it  came  to  close  quarters.  And  if  there  was 
anything  incongruous  in  this  eminent  pillar  of  Oxford 
diligently  striving  to  master  the  art  of  the  garroter 
at  the  bottom  of  the  mud  hole,  it  certainly  did  not 
occur  to  Shorty  Bill. 

"I  reckons  you're  not  quick  enough,  son,"  he  mur- 
mured reflectively  as  for  the  fourth  time  in  succession 
he  sat  on  Mayhew's  stomach  with  the  weapon  an 
inch  off  his  throat.  "Your  right  hand,  somehow, 
don't  seem  to  jump  to  it." 

"It's  rather  a  new  departure  for  me,  Shorty," 
gasped  the  winded  mathematician.  "Still — I'll  get  it; 
you  mark  my  words,  I'll  get  it." 

With  a  look  of  determination  on  his  face  he 
struggled  to  his  feet  and  removed  some  of  France 
from  his  face. 

"It's  a  thing  you  want  a  lot  of  practice  at,"  re- 
marked Shorty  professionally.  "You  can't  afford  to 
make  no  mistakes.  Now  in  your  gaff — teaching 
figures  an*  all  that  sort  of  thing — mistakes  don't 
matter.  You  spits  on  the  black-board  and  begins 
again.  'Ere  it's  different." 

For  one  fleeting  moment  John  Mayhew  shook  sil- 
«ntly.  A  sudden  vision  of  many  gowned  dignitaries 
of  various  ages  expectorating1  on  their  morning's 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  35 

labours,  proved  almost  too  much  for  him.  Then  he 
controlled  himself,  and  assented  gravely.  If  the  point 
of  view  was  novel  to  him,  how  much  more  was  his 
novel  to  Shorty?  And  in  this  great  citizen  army  of 
ours  to-day,  there  is  every  point  of  view  living  side 
by  side.  The  angles  are  getting  rubbed  off,  the 
corners  are  being  rounded;  we're  beginning  to  see 
things  from  the  common  footing.  And  the  common 
footing  isn't  yours  or  mine  or  his — it's  ours.  We've 
all  got  to  come  into  line,  and  realise  that  the  big 
noise — as  Shorty  would  say — of  the  constituency  be- 
fore the  war,  is  a  very  small  squeak  in  France. 
Wherefore  don't  laugh  at  the  other  man's  point  of 
view;  quite  possibly  he's  the  one  who  should  be  the 
tooth-wash  advertisement.  .  .  . 

"I  will  try  it  to-night,  Shorty,"  said  John,  "if  I 
get  a  chance." 

"Going  out  on  patrol,  son?"  Shorty  was  relighting 
his  pipe. 

"Yes.  Are  you  coming?  It's  an  officer's  patrol — 
and  fairly  strong." 

"Maybe  I'll  see  you — maybe  not.  I  was  thinking 
perhaps  I  might  take  a  look  at  that  sap  of  theirs  by 
Vesuvius  mine.  But  we'll  see."  Shorty  once  again 
composed  himself  for  rest  and  meditation.  "Don't 
forget,  son:  your  right  thumb  under  the  lobe  of  his 
ear,  and  get  it  there  at  once.  That's  your  weak 
point."  With  which  sage  utterance  Shorty  apparently 
slept. 


36  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

Now  whether  John  Mayhew  would  have  been  able 
to  profit  by  his  tutor's  final  words  or  not,  was  destined 
to  remain  unsolved  as  far  as  that  evening's  perform- 
ance was  concerned.  But  since  certain  things  oc- 
curred which  threw  a  little  light  on  Shorty's  proclivi- 
ties, a  short  account  of  it  may  not  be  out  of  place. 
Primarily  the  object  was  to  reconnoitre  the  condition 
of  the  Hun  wire;  secondarily  the  patrol  proposed  to 
mop  up  any  stray  Huns  who  should  prove  injudicious 
enough  to  be  met.  With  which  laudable  intentions, 
at  9.30  exactly,  an  officer  of  the  South  Devons,  fol- 
lowed by  six  men — amongst  whom  was  John  May- 
hew — clambered  cautiously  from  a  sap  head  and  de- 
parted into  No  Man's  Land. 

Now  the  officer  was  the  proud  possessor  of  a  com- 
pass— a  compass  of  a  new  and  wonderful  type.  Its 
dial  was  luminous;  in  fact,  it  glowed  like  a  young 
volcano.  It  was  guaranteed  fool-proof ;  it  rang  a  bell 
when  you  did  anything  wrong — or  almost.  Which 
made  it  all  the  more  distressing  that  the  vendor  of 
this  masterpiece  of  mechanism  should  have — in  the 
vernacular — sold  that  officer  a  pup.  For  undoubtedly 
that  is  what  occurred — according  to  the  officer.  And 
the  compass — being  merely  a  compass — couldn't  deny 
the  soft  impeachment.  It  couldn't  even  ring  its  bell. 
It  could  only  lie  in  the  bottom  of  a  shell  hole  where 
the  officer  had  hurled  it  in  a  fit  of  rage,  and  glow. 

But  to  descend  to  mundane  details.  They  reached 
the  wire  at  the  place  where  the  reconnaissance  was 
particularly  wanted,  and  investigated  stealthily.  Close 
by  they  could  hear  the  Boches  talking  in  their  trench, 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  37 

and  the  night  all  around  them  was  full  of  strange, 
whispering  noises  which  seemed  to  press  and  crowd 
on  their  brains.  The  flares  were  lobbing  up  with 
a  faint  hiss;  and  to  John  Mayhew  the  place  seemed 
alive.  He  seemed  to  be  a  dual  personality.  In  his 
mind  he  was  back  in  the  old  cloistered  walls,  drawing 
diagrams,  coaching,  living  in  his  world  of  abstruse 
formulae.  Then,  as  he  ducked  motionless  while  one 
of  the  green  lights  burnt  itself  out,  he  realised  the 
mud,  and  the  desolation,  and  the  death  around  him. 
It  struck  him  as  unreal  that  he — tutor  of  mathematics 
: — could  be  crouching  out  there  in  the  darkness  with 
a  Whitechapel  costermonger  breathing  down  his  neck. 
Then  as  he  moved  he  felt  his  coat  tear  on  a  strand 
of  barbed  wire,  and  cursed  softly. 

In  front  of  him  loomed  the  officer,  and  after  a  while 
he  realised  that  something  was  wrong.  He  heard  him 
swearing  under  his  breath,  and  moved  up  beside  him. 

"This  damned  compass!"  muttered  the  officer. 
"I've  got  five  different  bearings  with  the  beastly  thing 
already.  Who's  that?" 

"Mayhew,  sir,"  answered  the  other. 

"Well,  you're  a  mathematician.  How  does  this 
perishing  thing  work?  It's  pointing  South  when  it 
ought  to  be  North."  As  a  matter  of  fact  it  was 
pointing  at  a  large  and  unseen  dump  of  Boche  wire 
close  by  them  in  the  darkness;  but  that  is  neither 
here  nor  there. 

John  Mayhew  confessed  himself  defeated;  com- 
passes had  been  outside  the  realms  of  pure  thought 
at  Oxford. 


38  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

"But  over  there,  sir/'  he  whispered,  "where  the 
Boche  lights  are  going  up  so  often,  is  that  sap  behind 
Vesuvius  crater.  At  least,  I  think  so/'  he  added 
doubtfully.' 

The  officer  took  stock  of  his  surroundings.  He  had 
arranged  to  return  to  our  own  trenches  by  the  same 
way  from  which  he  had  gone,  and  the  defection  of  his 
compass  annoyed  him.  When  the  landscape  is  one 
dreary  flat,  when  there  are  no  marks  to  guide  one, 
but  only  a  succession  of  flares  which  bob  up  ceaselessly, 
it's  easy  to  lose  one's  bearings.  And  butting  into 
ones  own  trenches  at  a  point  where  the  occupants  are 
not  expecting  you  can  be  nearly  as  dangerous  as  but- 
ting into  the  German. 

"I  believe  you're  right,"  he  whispered  back  after  a 
moment.  "And  if  it  is,  we  can  find  our  way  back  from 
there  in  front  of  that  new  crater." 

The  patrol  moved  cautiously  forward  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  German  sap,  from  which  the  flares  still 
came  with  monotonous  regularity.  And  it  was  when 
they  had  got  about  half  way,  and  were  crouching  low 
while  one  of  the  flares  came  down,  that  it  struck 
John  Mayhew  that  something  dark  and  squat  had 
moved  near  the  sap.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  some- 
thing had  rolled  off  the  side  of  the  trench  into  the 
sap  head — something  sinister,  which  made  him  stare 
hard  at  the  spot  and  rub  his  eyes.  But  the  shadows 
were  dancing,  and  at  night  one  does  see  things — 
strange  things  which  ar'n't  there.  Mysterious  move- 
ments seem  to  be  going  on ;  bushes  and  mounds  creep 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  39 

about  and  dance,  and  a  man — unless  he  watches  it — • 
gets  jumpy. 

And  so  Mayhew  dismissed  the  matter  from  his  mind 
and  groped  on  in  the  darkness  after  his  officer,  con- 
centrating all  his  thoughts  on  the  problem  of  the 
moment — keeping  touch  and  moving  with  a  minimum 
of  noise.  Now,  in  an  almost  uncanny  degree  a  man 
is  conscious  of  his  surroundings  when  his  nerves  are 
taut,  and  any  alteration  in  those  surroundings  strikes 
his  mind  at  once.  Mayhew's  surroundings  at  the 
moment  may  best  be  described  as  darkness  and  flares ; 
and  he  was  still  some  way  from  the  sap  when  his 
brain  realised  the  fact  that  the  flares  had  ceased 
going  up.  As  before,  stray  ones  shot  up  at  intervals 
along  the  front  line  trenches,  but  the  sap — from  which 
they  had  been  coming  most  regularly — remained  in 
darkness.  And  involuntarily  his  thoughts  went  back 
to  that  strange,  sinister  shape  he  fancied  he  had  seen. 
Was  it  the  sap  party  leaving  the  sap  and  coming  out 

to  prowl  also;  or  was  it ?  At  that  moment  he 

realised  that  the  officer  had  halted  and  was  speaking  to 
him. 

"Where  is  that  blinking  sap?"  He  heard  the  words 
close  by  his  ear.  "They've  stopped  putting  up  any 
flares." 

"Straight  on  I  think,  sir,"  he  answered.  "And 
there's  something  happened  in  that  sap,  or  I'm  a  Dutch- 


man." 


Which  was  on  the  face  of  it  a  somewhat  foolish 
remark  to  make,  considering  the  scantiness  of  the 
evidence;  but  it  nevertheless  hit  the  bull's-eye  right  in 


40  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

the  centre.  Something  had  happened  in  the  sap  .  .  , 
something  was  even  then  happening. 

It  was  the  officer  who  gripped  his  arm  and  stopped 
that  blind  grope  forward. 

"Look  out!  Not  a  sound!"  He  heard  the  sudden 
hoarse  whisper  in  his  ear.  "We're  right  on  top  of 
them." 

Very  cautiously,  his  pulse  going  a  little  faster,  he 
leaned  forward  and  peered  down.  Even  in  the  dark- 
ness the  grey  chalk  of  the  bottom  of  the  sap  could  be 
seen,  and  stretching  away  to  their  right  he  could  see 
the  trench  as  it  twisted  backwards  to  the  German  front 
line.  A  few  wooden  frames  were  just  underneath 
him  at  the  sap  head,  where  the  sentry  stood  normally 
— but  there  was  no  sentry.  A  couple  of  rifles,  some 
bombs,  and  some  oddments  lay  scattered  about  at  the 
bottom  of  the  trench;  but  there  were  no  men.  The 
sap  was  empty.  Nothing  moved.  Everything  was 
silent — ominously  silent.  Only  a  bush — a  dark  blob — 
on  the  other  side  varied  the  grey  stillness. 

John  Mayhew  cautiously  wormed  himself  a  little 
farther  forward.  He  had  no  wish  to  stop  there,  but 
since  the  officer  made  no  sign  of  going,  but  appeared 
to  be  investigating,  he  thought  he  might  as  well  get 
full  value  for  his  money.  And  as  the  wooden  frames 
at  the  sap  head  were  in  his  way,  he  moved  nearer  the 
officer. 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  a  noise  came  from 
inside  the  frames,  a  noise  such  as  a  sack  makes  when 
it  slips  down.  Every  pulse  in  his  body  jumped,  and 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  41 

for  a  moment  his  heart  raced  so  fast  that  it  seemed  to 
choke  him. 

"My  God!  What's  that?"  Above  the  thrumming 
in  his  head  he  heard  the  officer's  hoarse  whisper  close 
by  him,  and  in  the  faint  light  of  a  distant  flare  May- 
hew  saw  his  eyes  glaring  inside  the  frames.  He 
looked  himself,  and  any  answer  he  might  have  made 
was  frozen  on  his  lips.  For  the  sap  head  was  not 
empty;  it  was  occupied. 

There  was  a  man  there,  or  something  that  looked 
like  a  man.  It  was  dark  and  huddled,  and  a  white 
thing  that  might  have  been  its  face  seemed  to  be 
twisted  underneath  it  on  the  ground.  Then,  even  as 
they  watched  it,  it  gave  another  lurch  and  rolled  over 
so  that  the  white  thing  was  hidden.  But  there  was 
one  thing,  which  was  not  hidden.  John  Mayhew 
watched,  mesmerised,  as  it  spread  slowly  over  the 
grey  chalk ;  spreading  and  spreading  so  slowly  and  so 
surely  in  the  silence  of  the  sap.  .  .  . 

"Get  back !"  An  agonised  order  in  his  ear,  and  he 
felt  himself  dragged  back  from  the  edge.  "There's 
some  one  coming." 

The  next  moment  a  German  came  round  the  corner 
of  the  trench,  and  moved  towards  the  sap  head. 
John  could  hear  him  muttering  under  his  breath  as  he 
passed — all  unconscious  of  his  danger — within  four 
feet  of  him.  Then  suddenly  came  a  horrified  "Mein 
Gott !"  The  thing  inside  the  box  had  been  discovered. 

The  German  pulled  out  the  dead  sentry  and  cursed. 
The  listeners  above  heard  him  grunt  as  he  heaved 
the  lifeless  form  over;  they  saw — without  seeing — 


42  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

the  thing  collapse  and  slither  again.  And  then — the 
inconceivable  happened. 

The  bush — the  dark  blob — on  the  other  side  of  the 
sap,  suddenly  rolled  over,  and  fell  into  the  trench. 
One  moment  it  was  there :  the  next  it  had  gone.  With 
staring  eyes  John  Mayhew  peered  in  front  of  him; 
close  beside  him  the  officer  was  breathing  jerkily. 
There  was  a  low  worrying  noise,  a  slight  rattle  as  if 
something  had  hit  a  tin,  and  then  silence  once 
again.  .  .  . 

Ten  minutes  later  the  patrol  was  filing  back  into 
the  sap  from  which  they  had  started  on  the  night's 
amusement.  Standing  at  the  sap  head  the  officer 
counted  his  lambs  as  they  dropped  beside  him,  and 
having  counted  them  he  scratched  his  head. 

"Tell  'em  to  fall  in  in  the  trench,"  he  said  to  the 
N.C.O.  beside  him.  "Damn  it — the  birth  rate  is  going 
up." 

Once  again  did  he  count  his  little  flock,  and  then: 
"How  many  did  we  go  out  with,  Sergeant  Jones?" 

"Seven,  sir.     Eight,  counting  yourself." 

"Well,  who  the  deuce  is  the  ninth?" 

"Reckon  it's  me,  sir."  Out  of  the  darkness  loomed 
Shorty  Bill.  "I  joined  on  with  your  little  crush,  when 
you  was  coming  home/' 

"But  where  were  you?"  queried  the  officer. 

"Jes'  takin'  the  air  by  that  sap  which  you  outted 
into."  Shorty's  tone  was  non-committal. 

"Did  you  see  us?" 

"See  you?"  The  darkness  covered  that  quick  gfin. 
"Yep,  sir,  I  saw  you  right  enough,  and  heard  you. 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  43 

I  was  afraid  you  was  going  to  fall  into  the  blinking 
sap  once." 

"Was  it  you  who — that  man,  that  sentry  .  .  .  was 
it  you  who  killed  him?" 

"Sure  thing.  An'  the  next  perisher  too."  Shorty 
felt  the  edge  of  his  own  peculiar  weapon.  "Quite, 
quite  dead — the  pair  of  'em.  Which  makes  two 
less.  .  .  ." 

"Then  you  were  that  black  thing — that  bush?" 
With  a  hand  that  still  shook  slightly  at  the  remem- 
brance of  that  sinister  squat  lump  which  had  vanished 
before  their  very  eyes,  the  officer  lit  a  cigarette.  He 
still  heard  that  worrying  noise — and  the  gurgling  rattle. 
He  still  saw  the  white  thing  peering  up  at  him,  and 
the  dark  stain  that  spread. 

But  there  was  no  answer  to  his  question.  Shorty 
Bill,  as  was  his  wont,  had  faded  away — disappeared — 
though  no  one  seemed  to  have  seen  him  go. 

"Where  the  devil  is  the  fellow  ?"  The  officer  turned 
to  Sergeant  Jones. 

"Gawd  knows,  sir,"  responded  that  worthy.  "Prob- 
ably asleep  in  his  dugout  by  now.  That  there  Shorty 
Bill  is  a  phurry  miracle." 


IV 

With  every  soldier  action  must  come  first,  motive 
second.  And  with  every  soldier  the  action  is  very 
simple,  though  the  motive  may  be  most  complex.  A 
League  of  Nations  may  be  thought  about ;  propaganda 
for  turning  the  Hun  from  his  unpleasing  rulers  may 


44  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

be  put  on  foot;  the  right  of  self-determination  for 
small  nations  may  be  shouted  in  high  places.  And  very 
nice  too. 

Moreover,  all  these  abstruse  problems  may  be  dis- 
cussed and  thought  about  by  the  men  who  have  actually 
got  to  do  the  job.  In  an  academic  way  they  may  be 
considered,  along  with  conscription  for  Ireland  and 
the  position  taken  up  by  the  Amalgamated  Society  of 
Engineers.  But  they  all  come  second.  First  and  fore- 
most with  the  soldier  must  come  action.  And  while 
things  remain  as  they  are  in  this  funny  old  world, 
while  the  Hun  refuses  to  dislike  rulers  who  have,  on 
the  face  of  it,  at  any  rate,  given  him  a  deuced  good 
run  for  his  money — that  action  can  only  be  of  one  type. 
Politicians  may  talk ;  novelists  may  decide  the  fate  of 
Africa;  but  the  soldier  must  either  kill  or  be  killed. 
In  the  intervals — if  his  mind  is  clear,  and  his  brain  is 
strong — he  can  follow  the  ramifications  of  intellect  of 
those  great  and  good  men  who  speak  so  beautifully  on 
the  condition  of  the  world  as  it  undoubtedly  ought 
to  be.  And  having  followed  them,  the  poor  blighter 
comes  back  to  the  world  as  it  is  in  the  shape  of  a  carry- 
ing party  for  barbed  wire  at  the  R.E.  dump  at  Hell 
Fire  Corner.  He  knows — good,  honest  lad — how  well 
he  is  being  looked  after.  His  morals,  his  rum,  all  those 
things  which  are  generally  a  man's  own  private  af- 
fairs, are  now  the  subjects  of  impassioned  debates 
and  hysterical  societies.  And  he  appreciates  it:  he 
would  indeed  be  a  churlish  fellow  who  did  not.  His 
appreciation  even  goes  to  the  length  of  wishing  that 
he  might  meet  some  of  those  kindly  benefactors  of  his 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  45 

— possibly  at  the  R.E.  dump  at  Hell  Fire  Corner;  and 
that  he  might  thank  them  for  all  they  had  done  and 
were  doing,  and  load  them  up  with  barbed  wire  and 
pickets,  and  lead  them  up  the  same  old  damned  duck 
walk,  and  push  'em  into  the  same  old  damned  shell 
holes  .  .  .  just  out  of  gratitude. 

In  Shorty  Bill's  case  the  motive  was  simplicity  it- 
self. And  in  its  simplicity  lay  its  strength.  It  wasn't 
a  motive  that  would  have  been  approved  of  by  the 
Bench  of  Bishops ;  but  then,  honesty  compels  me  to  ad- 
mit that  Shorty  would  hardly  have  met  with  that 
approval  himself.  However,  since  he  would  have  ap- 
proved of  them  even  less  than  they  did  of  him,  the 
matter  is  all  square. 

He  very  rarely  mentioned  any  motive — he  simply 
carried  on  and  killed.  But  John  Mayhew  did  get  it 
out  of  him  once,  in  an  estaminet  near  the  rest  billets 
of  the  battalion.  It  was  just  after  the  little  episode 
of  the  German  sap,  and  Shorty  had  been  getting  one 
or  two  small  points  off  his  chest  on  the  subject  of  that 
night's  entertainment. 

"Never,"  he  remarked  witheringly,  "have  I  heard 
such  a  ruddy  noise  in  the  whole  of  me  natural.  There 
was  I — waiting — trying  to  catch  the  faintest  sound, 
when  your  procession  arrives  like  a  Cook's  tour.  You 
shouts  at  one  another  through  a  megaphone ;  very  near 
falls  into  the  phurry  sap  into  the  bargain.  What  the 
hell  was  you  doing,  any  way,  son?" 

"Well,  Shorty,"  returned  Mayhew,  in  a  slightly 
nettled  voice,  "you  must  admit  that  that  dead  sentry 


46  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

wasn't  a  pretty  thing  to  meet  suddenly  when  you 
weren't  expecting  it." 

"Pretty  thing!  What  did  you  want — a  tulip  bed? 
'E  was  a  dead  Hun,  and  that's  better  nor  being  pretty 
—it's  useful." 

''How  did  you  kill  him,  Shorty/'  asked  Mayhew 
fascinated. 

"Never  you  mind,  son.  You  might  get  trying  it 
yourself,  an'  get  boxed  up.  A  little  trick  I  learned 
from  a  cove  in  Nagasaki." 

"We  saw  you  go  in  on  the  second." 

"I  knows  that,"  Shorty's  tone  was  aggrieved.  "It 
was  a  question  of  move,  and  move  damn  quick.  He'd 
got  a  flare  pistol  in  his  lunch  hook  when  I  fell  on  him, 
and  your  little  crowd  would  have  looked  pretty  if  he'd 
let  it  off.* 

Mayhew  pondered  thoughtfully.  "The  officer  lost 
his  way;  his  compass  went  wrong,"  he  remarked  after 
a  short  silence. 

"Compass !"  The  withering  scorn  of  Shorty's  voice 
must  have  put  out  for  ever  the  luminous  glow  of  that 
painstaking  instrument.  "  'E  didn't  want  no  compass; 
'e  wanted  a  nurse."  With  which  the  conversation  lan- 
guished. 

"Do  you  often  go  round  on  your  own  like  that, 
Shorty?"  asked  his  companion  when  he  had  seen  to 
the  replenishing  of  both  glasses. 

"Sure  thing.  I  reckons  it's  the  greatest  sport  in  the 
world;  and  besides  that,  I  hates  them  bloody  Huns." 
The  two  great  fists  spread  out  over  the  table  clenched, 
and  for  a  while  Shorty  looked  out  of  the  window  in 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  47 

silence.  "I  hates  them:  hates  'em  like  poison;  and  if 
I  can  reach  three  figures  in  them  I've  killed,  before 
they  outs  me,  I  reckons  we  call  it  'quits/  '  Again  he 
paused  and  looked  out  on  to  the  street,  where  the  lorries 
came  bumping  by  and  the  men  strolled  aimlessly  about. 

"I  had  a  young  brother,"  he  went  on  after  a  while, 
"a  young  fellah  who  was  doing  well  in  England.  He 
was  in  the  clerking  department  of  some  big  crowd 
in  London;  messed  about  with  figures  did  my  young 
brother — same  line  as  you." 

John  Mayhew  bowed  silently. 

"When  this  dust-up  come  along  Jimmy  was  off 
like  a  scalded  cat  to  the  nearest  recruiting  office: 
chucked  up  a  job  worth  three  pound  a  week  without 
a  by-your-leave.  An'  mark  you,  son,  'e  was  the  goods 
was  Jimmy.  Different  sort  of  cove  to  me.  I  guess 
I'll  never  be  no  great  shakes;  but  Jimmy — 'e  might 
have  done  wonders.  Steady  and  respectable;  church 
on  Sundays ;  in  fact,  I  did  'ear  that  once  he  took  round 
the  bag.  Which  shows  what  he  was  for  a  young  man." 
Shorty  gazed  at  his  companion  in  a  kind  of  hushed 
awe,  and  Mayhew  controlled  himself. 

"Undoubtedly,  Shorty,"  he  murmured.  "Un- 
doubtedly." 

"Wai,  as  I  says,  Jimmy  hops  it — church,  bag,  clerk- 
ship, everything — hops  it  and  joins  up.  I  was  over 
in  'Frisco  at  the  time,  and  I  come  belting  back  to  try 
and  git  in  the  same  crush.  And  then  when  I  lands 
I  goes  off  to  see  the  old  people.  Of  course,  I  didn't 
cut  much  ice  there."  Shorty  paused,  and  the  tragedy 
of  the  rolling  stone  showed  for  a  moment  on  his  face. 


48  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

"He  didn't  cut  no  ice  at  home";  everything  revolved 
round  the  younger  brother,  who  was  respectable.  And 
Jimmy  was  missing.  So  they  told  Shorty,  the  ne'er- 
do-well  who  had  come  to  them  out  of  the  back  of  be- 
yond, with  the  tears  flowing  down  their  furrowed 
old  faces. 

"Jimmy  was  missing  and  wounded,  and  then  they 
told  the  old  folk  that  he  was  a  prisoner  of  war." 
Shorty  drained  his  glass,  and  started  to  fill  his  pipe. 
"They  sent  him  to  Switzerland  after  a  while,"  he  said 
quietly,  "and  then  he  came  home.  Jimmy  came  home 
to  the  old  people — came  home  to  die.  But  before  he 
died  I  saw  him :  the  Colonel,  he  give  me  special  leave. 
And  when  I  saw  him  he  told  me  what  they'd  done  to 
him  in  Germany."  For  a  moment  the  veins  stood  out 
in  his  neck,  and  his  thoughts  seemed  far  away.  "That's 
why  I  hates  them — the  swine." 

It  may  not  be  Christianity — but  war  is  not  Christian. 
It  may  not  reflect  credit  on  our  vaunted  civilisation; 
neither  does  war.  It's  not  a  pretty  subject;  it  may 
not  help  us  any  nearer  the  coming  Dawn.  From 
an  intellectual  point  of  view  the  slaughter  of  a  Boche 
infantryman  in  the  front  line  trench  has  nothing  much 
to  do  with  the  ill-treatment  of  a  prisoner  behind.  But 
to-day — more  than  ever — it  is  not  intellect  that  rules 
the  world.  It  is  sentiment,  emotion,  call  it  what  you 
will — a  feeling  that  springs  from  a  deeper  source  than 
the  brain.  And  with  Shorty  that  sentiment  was  re- 
venge. An  eye  for  an  eye  was  his  motto — and  he 
didn't  wait  for  the  eye  to  come  to  him.  He  went  and 
took  it. 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  49 

'They  took  him,  and  they  dumped  him  in  a  cattle- 
truck,  son/'  he  went  on  after  a  moment.  "It  was 
thick  with  filth,  and  there  were  fifty  of  them  in  it. 
For  three  days  and  three  nights  they  kept  'em  there 
— not  allowing  'em  out  once.  And  Jimmy  was  de- 
lirious and  his  wounds  were  gangrened.  They  had 
no  food,  nor  no  drink;  and  when  they  got  to  their 
destination  they  was  pulled  out  and  lined  up — them 
as  could  stand.  Jimmy  lay  down,  and  a  nice-looking 
woman  come  up  to  him,  smiling  all  over  her  blarsted 
face,  with  some  water. 

"  'Water,  my  poor  boy,'  says  she,  all  kind  like. 

"Jimmy  puts  out  his  hand  to  get  the  cup,  when  that 
she-devil  chucks  it  in  his  face — and  then,  not  content 
with  that,  spits  on  him.  Gawd's  truth,  if  I  could  ever 
meet  her."  Once  again  the  veins  stood  out  on  his 
neck. 

"But  maybe  I've  killed  her  brother,  or  her  husband 
— or  the  brother  or  husband  of  one  of  them  swine, 
any  way."  He  paused  to  gain  comfort  from  the  re- 
flection. 

"Then,  when  they  got  him  to  the  horspital,  Jimmy, 
'e  couldn't  walk.  So  they  puts  'im  on  a  stretcher, 
and  carries  him  in.  An'  every  few  yards  the  swine 
in  front  says  something,  and  the  pair  of  'em  dropped 
the  stretcher.  An'  'im  with  his  leg  all  shattered  and 
gangrene  set  in,  and  a  chip  out  of  his  head  as  well. 
When  he  moaned  they  kicked  him ;  and  the  Red  Cross 
women  laughed — laughed  like  hell. 

"When  they  got  him  inside  they  give  him  a  bit  of 
black  bread  and  some  coffee  in  a  tin  what  'ad  been 


50  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

used  as  a  slop  pail,  and  flung  him  down  on  a  board 
without  no  blankets — nothing.  Then  they  left  him 
for  two  days  without  going  near  him.  And  the  place 
was  stiff  with  doctors.  I'm  glad  I  saw  him  and  heard 
about  it  before  the  youngster  died." 

Shorty  Bill's  eyes  glowed  sombrely,  and  John  May- 
hew  waited  in  silence.  "I  likes  it — it's  sport;  but  it's 
more  than  sport,  son,  with  me — it's  me  duty  to 
Jimmy." 

With  a  brief  "So-long/'  he  rose  and  passed  through 
the  doors  into  the  sunny  street,  and  Mayhew  watched 
him,  with  his  long  uneven  stride  and  his  great  arms 
hanging  loose  by  his  side,  threading  his  way  through 
the  traffic.  And  after  a  while  he  too  rose,  and  went 
outside.  There  was  a  hill — a  hill  with  grass  on  it 
and  a  little  copse  at  the  top,  close  by  the  village — and 
he  turned  his  steps  towards  it.  John  Mayhew  wanted 
to  think.  .  .  . 

One  or  two  of  the  men  in  his  platoon  hailed  him 
as  he  passed  them,  but  Mayhew  hardly  heard  them, 
and  they  took  no  further  notice  of  him.  Even  in  the 
strange  mixture  of  our  army  to-day  he  stood  apart 
from  the  others,  and  they  recognised  it.  There  was 
no  trace  of  condescension  about  him,  but  their  ways 
were  not  his  ways — their  ideas  not  his.  By  nature  a 
dreamer,  and  at  the  same  time  intensely  analytical, 
John  Mayhew  was  wont  to  subject  his  most  cherished 
visions  to  a  very  searching  inward  examination. 
Shorty  Bill's  rank  but  splendid  materialism  had 
brought  forcibly  to  his  mind,  once  again,  the  old  ques- 
tion of  the  why  and  the  wherefore  of  this  thing  that 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  51 

has  come  upon  us.  And  it  was  not  the  cause  so  much 
perhaps  as  the  effect  which  he  was  turning  over  in  his 
mind  as  he  reached  the  trees  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and 
lay  down  on  the  grass  with  his  face  turned  towards  the 
east.  Far  away,  on  the  horizon,  almost  invisible  in  the 
haze,  half  a  dozen  sausages  floated  motionless;  while 
the  mutter  of  the  guns  was  hardly  audible  above  the 
buzzing  of  insects  and  the  chattering  of  a  family  of 
tits  who  were  anxiously  awaiting  "Feed  away!"  to 
sound.  .  .  . 

The  knock-out  blow — Shorty's  doctrine  pushed  to 
its  logical  extreme.  .  .  .  Mayhew  turned  over  on  his 
back  and  closed  his  eyes.  Was  it  possible,  was  it 
probable,  was  it  worth  it?  Why,  of  course;  for  what 
else  was  he  fighting?  The  crushing  of  militarism  in 
Prussia,  was  not  that  the  avowed  object  of  this  war? 
They  had  brought  it  on  themselves ;  they  were  the  ag- 
gressors, and  as  such  they  deserved  all  they  got.  In 
fact,  they  could  never  get  all  they  deserved. '  Always 
would  they  owe  a  debt  to  posterity,  a  debt  for  ravaged 
cities  and  shattered  homes,  which  no  crushing  defeat 
could  ever  repay  in  full.  They  had  forfeited  the  right 
to  be  judged  as  free  men;  they  had  deliberately  elected 
to  assume  the  role  of  vandals  and  domineering  bul- 
lies. So  be  it ;  the  course  was  plain.  They  .must  be 
crushed,  and  only  with  their  crushing  would  rest  and 
goodwill  return  to  a  blood-stained  world.  Even  as 
they  had  crushed  Russia,  so  must  they  in  turn  be 
crushed.  Let  it  be  an  eye  for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for 
a  tooth ;  for  then,  and  then  only,  would  there  be  peace. 

Mayhew  smiled  cynically.     What  is  sauce  for  the 


52  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

goose  is  sauce  for  the  gander,  and  he  asked  himself 
one  question.  Supposing  the  inconceivable  happened, 
and  England  was  the  one  who  was  crushed — would 
there  be  peace? 

For  ten  years,  perhaps  twenty — even  fifty.  But 
what  then  ?  Can  there  be  peace  by  repression,  by  con- 
quest— permanent  peace?  What  of  Russia,  when  in 
the  years  to  come  she  gradually  comes  into  her  own 
again,  and  finds  herself  encircled  by  the  bonds  of  a 
conqueror?  Will  there  be  peace  then?  What  of 
Alsace  and  Lorraine?  Did  the  victory  of  '70  bring 
peace  with  it — permanent  peace?  And  yet  both  na- 
tions, Russia  to-day  and  France  yesterday,  were 
crushed  militarily.  .  .  . 

Mayhew  leaned  on  his  elbow  and  lit  a  cigarette. 
The  thing  was  not  on  the  level.  With  Russia  and 
France  it  was  the  aggressor  who  had  won ;  in  this  case 
it  was  going  to  be  the  aggressor  who  was  knocked  out. 
That  made  a  difference.  Right  and  might  with  them 
had  been  on  opposite  sides;  in  this  case  they  would 
be  hand  in  hand.  Once  more  did  he  smile  cynically. 
The  question  of  Right  takes  people  different  ways. 
The  white  figure  of  Truth  is  apt  to  appear  green  to  one 
beholder  and  speckled  to  another,  according  to  their 
points  of  view  and  digestions.  And  immeasurably 
foolish  though  they  may  be,  there  seemed  to  him  but 
little  doubt  that  the  Germans  regarded  Right  as  being 
on  their  side :  a  point  of  view  which  the  friendship  of 
the  Kaiser  with  the  Almighty  and  developments  on 
the  Eastern  front  had  done  much  to  strengthen. 
Which  brought  our  philosopher  back  to  the  beginning 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  53 

of  the  vicious  circle  once  again.  Entirely  owing  to 
their  failure  to  grasp  an  elementary  truth,  even  when  a 
triumphant  army  of  W.A.A.C.'s  marched  down  the 
Unter  den  Linden,  the  Germans  would  present  the 
same  proposition  to  us  as  France  did  to  them  in  '70. 
Which  undoubtedly  made  things  "cruel  'ard,"  for  a 
self-respecting  idealist  who  in  his  spare  time  was  being 
coached  by  Shorty  Bill  in  the  methods  adopted  by 
Levantine  Greeks  for  shortening  the  lives  of  those 
who  displeased  them.  So  much  for  Might  triumphant 
alone.  .  .  . 

Mayhew  lay  back  once  again  on  the  grass  and 
turned  to  the  other  end  of  the  picture.  And  having 
regarded  it  for  half  a  second  he  laughed  shortly  and 
threw  away  his  cigarette.  It  may  be  true  that  this 
world  would  be  a  better,  purer  spot  if  Right  always 
came  out  on  top,  though  it  would  undoubtedly  be  more 
boring.  But  since  the  world  has  no  desire  to  be  either 
better  or  purer,  the  triumph  of  Right,  unassisted  and 
unadorned,  must  remain  for  the  present  the  exclusive 
property  of  a  large  body  of  novels  of  revolting  senti- 
mentality, and  the  means  by  which  the  top-hatted  vil- 
lain is  foiled  in  the  Cornish  fishing  village  by  the  funny 
man  of  the  play,  ensconced  in  a  hollow  tree. 

There  are  some  who  say  that  Russia  has  tried  the 
policy  of  Right  in  the  abstract.  Let  us  not  argue  on 
it :  even  if  they  be  correct,  her  present  condition  is 
all  there  is  to  be  said  about  it.  In  the  days  to  come 
she  will  add  Might  to  that  Right,  even  as  France  has 
done  to-day.  But  in  the  meantime  .  .  .  No,  that 
won't  do.  Worse  far  than  any  conquest  and  repres- 


54  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

sion,  would  be  a  peace  of  that  nature;  an  attempt  to 
impress  on  the  Hun,  by  our  beauty  of  character  only, 
that  we  are  right  and  he  is  wrong,  and  that  for  the 
future  peace  of  Europe  we  should  like  him  to  agree 
with  us.  He  won't.  No  more  should  we  in  his 
place.  .  .  . 

"Put  it  how  you  will,"  muttered  Mayhew  to  him- 
self, "if  you're  going  to  have  another  war  in  thirty 
years,  it's  better  to  be  top  dog  during  the  preparation 
period." 

And  that's  the  point.  Must  the  legacy  of  this 
carnage  over  the  water  be  left  for  our  children  to 
realise  all  over  again?  Is  there  no  method  by  which 
in  truth  this  can  be  made  the  war  to  end  wars?  In 
all  its  details  it  is  so  utterly  repulsive  and  hideous; 
in  every  respect  it  is  so  utterly  insensate  and  cruel. 

To  achieve  the  result  by  the  lofty  raising  of  the 
banner  of  Right  is  the  wild  vision  of  the  fanatic; 
but  to  achieve  it  by  the  military  victory  of  Might 
alone  is  equally  futile.  There  must  be  a  combina- 
tion of  the  two  if  there  is  to  be  a  lasting  peace.  There 
must  arise  in  the  hearts  of  the  great  mass  of  Germans 
the  certain  knowledge  that  war  does  not  pay.  They 
themselves  must  acquiesce  in  the  decision  of  the  rest 
of  the  world — willingly  or  unwillingly — but  they  must 
acquiesce.  They  must  see  Truth  as  we  see  it,  and  we 
must  see  it  as  they  see  it.  For  if  there  be  any  rancour 
left  on  either  side — and  it  is  hard  to  see  how  the  world 
will  escape  it — we  are  but  laying  up  for  ourselves  the 
seeds  of  another  war,  more  damnable  even  than  this. 
Only  by  Might  can  they  be  made  to  see  that  it  does  not 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  55 

pay ;  only  by  a  fresh  view  of  Right  can  they  be  made  to 
realise  that  it  ought  not  to  pay. 

John  Mayhew  rose  and  stretched  himself,  and  with 
a  final  glance  at  the  silent  balloons  which  watched 
the  Madness  of  Men,  he  strolled  down  the  hill. 

"Shorty,"  he  said,  as  he  marked  down  that  worthy 
buying  a  picture  postcard,  "come  and  give  me  a  bit 
of  practice  in  that  neckhold  again/' 

"Sure  thing,  son.    Feeling  bloodthirsty  ?" 

Mayhew  grinned.  "So  so.  But  I've  been  thinking 
on  abstract  subjects  since  I  last  saw  you.  Might  and 
Right — and  how  to  combine  'em  into  a  working 
scheme.  It's  Might  first,  Shorty,  and  Right  is  amongst 
the  also  rans — as  far  as  we're  concerned.  And  any 
way,  if  we  are  all  at  it  again  in  thirty  years,  I'll  be  a 
special  constable  guarding  a  brewery  by  then." 


There  are  many  degrees  of  nearness  to  the  Hun 
in  France,  and  each  is,  sooner  or  later,  occupied 
by  a  battalion.  It  may  be  in  the  line,  where  the  princi- 
pal worry  is  the  rum  jar  of  German  extraction;  it  may 
be  right  out,  thirty  odd  miles,  where  the  principal 
worry  is  the  absence  of  the  rum  jar  of  the  homelier 
English  type.  It  may  be  in  brigade  reserve;  it  may 
be  existing  beautifully  as  part  of  the  divisional  reserve 
a  bit  farther  back,  troubled  only  by  aeroplane  bombs 
and  the  Royal  Engineers,  who  unceasingly  demand 
men  wherewith  to  carry  on  their  nefarious  designs. 

And  of  all  these  different  localities  perhaps  that 


56  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

which  strikes  the  sharp  contrasts  of  war  most  fully, 
is  the  one,  three,  four,  five  miles  behind  the  front  line. 
Up  in  front  is  silence  and  desolation.  No  living  thing 
moves  above  ground,  and  only  the  tumbled  earth 
and  the  ceaseless  bang-bang  of  trench-mortar  bombs 
show  that  it  is  populated.  Away  right  behind  every- 
thing is  normal.  Save  for  the  presence  of  khaki  every- 
where the  villages  are  as  they  were  before  the  war 
< — as  much  out  of  it  as  if  they  were  in  England.  But 
in  that  strip,  which  is  out  of  it  and  yet  not  out  of  it, 
which  is  in  it  and  yet  not  in  it,  there  comes  the  con- 
trast. Everything  goes  on  as  usual — or  almost  as 
usual :  shops  are  open,  business  thrives.  Occasionally 
a  house  disappears  as  a  Boche  aeroplane  circles  high 
overhead,  or  a  long-range  gun  gets  a  bull.  But  those 
who  live  close  to  are  used  to  that,  and  almost  be- 
fore the  dust  and  debris  have  come  to  earth  again,  les 
auires  are  carrying  on.  It  may  be  their  turn  next,  but 
c'est  la  guerre.  .  .  . 

And  to  these  towns  there  come  officers  and  men 
'from  the  front,  who  try  and  pretend  for  the  afternoon 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  war.  For  the  men  there 
are  recreation  rooms  run  by  the  Y.M.C.A.,  that  society 
whose  name  is  for  ever  blessed,  and  the  record  of 
whose  work  in  France  should  be  blazoned  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth.  For  the  officers  there  is  a  club. 

It  is  not  what  the  Londoner  would  expect  to  find 
as  a  club.  To  the  habitues  of  the  Bachelors  and  the 
Carlton  its  general  appearance  would  in  all  proba- 
bility create  a  strong  desire  to  have  their  money  back. 
Not  that  it  is  very  much :  ten  francs  procures  for  you 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  57 

a  card  which  constitutes  you  a  member  for  six  months ; 
a  hundred  would  doubtless  make  you  one  for  life,  with 
an  option  on  the  premises  themselves  thrown  in  as  a 
make-weight. 

Two  or  three  years  ago  it  was  the  eminently  respect- 
able abode  of  an  eminently  respectable  lawyer,  who 
practised  in  that  country  town  in  France,  as  his  father 
had  done  before  him.  They  were  of  the  North,  the 
family  of  Monsieur  1'avocat:  a  hard-headed,  shrewd 
family,  as  is  essential  when  the  clients  are  workers  in 
the  manufacturing  districts.  And  then  there  came  the 
day  when  ordinary  business  stopped,  and  men  stood 
about  in  bunches  at  the  street  corners,  and  discussed 
the  thing  that  had  happened.  One  by  one,  as  the  days 
passed  by,  the  men  disappeared — clients  and  lawyer, 
patients  and  doctor,  they  went  into  the  unknown  world 
of  war,  leaving  the  women  behind  to  carry  on.  ^t 
times  they  return  "en  permission" ;  at  times  the  news 
comes  through,  and  a  woman,  wild-eyed  and  staring, 
rocks  to  and  fro  and  tries  to  realise  it.  Verdun — le 
Chemin  des  Dames — what  matter  where  it  happened? 
It  has  happened,  and  that  is  all  that  counts  to  her.  .  .  . 

But  with  Madame  1'avocat  things  were  better.  If 
you  go  into  the  house,  and  force  your  way  through 
the  coats  which  almost  meet  across  the  entrance  pas- 
sage, you  will  find  a  large  soldier  who  sits  at  the  re- 
ceipt of  custom.  He  is  possibly  a  Highlander,  pos- 
sibly a  Cockney,  who  has  been  lent  to  Madame  for 
the  time,  to  assure  her  that  the  official  eye  still  smiles 
upon  her.  He  sits  in  a  little  alcove  off  the  hall,  and 
removes  your  coat  and  ten  francs,  should  you  fail  to 


58  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

convince  him  of  your  membership.  After  that  the 
world  is  open  to  you.  On  your  right  a  barber  snips 
ceaselessly  in  what  was  doubtless  Monsieur's  study, 
and  anoints  your  head — unless  you  are  firm — with 
powerful  unguents  closely  resembling  a  gas  attack. 
On  your  left  the  dining  salon,  bar,  smoking,  and  ping- 
pong  room  combined  extend  to  you  their  hospitality. 
And  there  Madame  may  be  seen  at  certain  hours  of 
the  day,  imparting  some  much-needed  ginger  to  vari- 
ous attendants,  both  male  and  female. 

One  cannot  but  be  struck  by  the  sound  common 
sense  of  Monsieur  in  taking  unto  himself  such  a  wife. 
Not  beautiful — true;  but  is  beauty  required  in  the  wife 
of  a  lawyer  whose  clients  are  coal-miners?  No,  no; 
to  Madame  the  far  better  and  rarer  quality  which  en- 
ables her  to  cover,  with  perfect  affability  and  charm, 
the  fact  that  she  is  fully  aware  of  how  many  beans, 
marbles,  or  vegetable-marrows  must  be  produced  to 
make  the  total  up  to  five. 

Her  husband  will  doubtless  be  coming  on  leave 
some  day,  and  in  the  meantime  everything  is  going 
on  very  nicely.  Thus  does  she  give  you  to  understand, 
as  she  passes  from  table  to  table.  Anxious — mais  non. 
She  shrugs  her  shoulders,  and  one  agrees  with  her. 
Cui  bono?  indeed;  especially  as  there  is  a  suspicion 
that  Monsieur  is  very  comfortably  employed  in  Paris, 
where  his  ideas  on  the  subject  of  beauty  may  or  may 
not  be  undergoing  revision. 

In  the  meantime,  what  a  man  of  common  sense  he 
is.  .  .^ 

"Mais,  monsieur,  this  ees  no  use.     C'est  napoo." 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  59 

All-enveloping,  and  magnificent,  she  politely  sorts  out 
the  one- franc  Rouen  note  and  hands  it  back  to  its  un- 
happy owner,  who  smiles  at  her  ingratiatingly. 

"Mais,  madame,"  he  begins  gently,  "it's  no  bally  use 
to  me  either.  Ce  n'est  pas  napoo ;  c'est  tres  bong." 

"Oui,  monsieur — c'est  tres  bon — en  Rouen." 

"No  go,  Ginger;  stung  again,  old  man."  His  fel- 
low luncher  grins  at  Madame.  "It's  his  hair,  Madame, 
chevaux  jaunes,  n'est-ce  pas?" 

She  smiles  benignly,  and  nods  her  head.  What  yel- 
low horses  have  got  to  do  with  the  question  is  a 
little  obscure ;  but  as  she  has  long  given  up  the  slightest 
attempt  at  understan&cg  the  remarks  addressed  to 
her  in  French,  the  point  is  immaterial.  A  good  one- 
franc  piece  has  been  substituted  for  the  dud  Rouen 
note,  and  Madame  is  happy.  Every  one  is  happy,  in 
fact — Monsieur  in  Paris,  and  the  ping-pong  players, 
and  the  man  with  a  good  number  of  La  Vie  Parisienne 
seated  by  the  bar  drinking  a  strange  and  wonderful 
concoction  called  a  cocktail.  It  is  made  by  a  little  boy 
— a  fat  little  boy — of  incredible  impudence,  and  is  un- 
like any  cocktail  ever  before  thought  of.  But  what 
does  it  matter?  What  does  anything  matter  save  the 
fact  that  for  a  while  you  are  back  six  miles  odd  behind 
the  trenches?  This  evening  a  motor  lorry  will  bump 
you  up  the  road  till  you  come  to  the  dead  villages, 
where  men  live  in  cellars  and  one-time  houses  are 
heaps  of  bricks.  Guns  will  bark  angrily  all  round  you 
— angry  spitting  field  guns  from  cunningly  concealed 
positions:  big  ones  sedate  and  stolid,  from  behind 
houses  and  coal  stacks,  where  you  least  expected  them. 


60  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

You  will  curse  an  Archie  which  you  pass  on  the  road 
for  completely  deafening  you;  and  should  you  know 
its  owner  you  will  endear  yourself  to  him  for  life 
by  asking  him  what  he  is  shooting  at.  You  will  do  lots 
of  things  before  you  finally  sit  down  to  dinner  in  the 
company  mess ;  but  that  is  all — this  evening.  Just  now 
— well,  Madame  is  happy,  and  so  are  you,  in  the  little 
club  six  miles  behind  the  lines.  .  .  . 

What  matters  the  job  that  night?  What  matters 
the  unpleasing  conviction  that  you  are  for  that  de- 
lightful solace  to  the  weary — a  working  party?  Is 
not  that  the  reason  you  came  out  to  rest? 

There  is  activity  up  in  the  dead  land;  there  are 
rumours  in  the  air  that  things  are  going  to  happen. 
And  before  things  can  happen,  things  where  the 
theories  of  Shorty  Bill  are  tried  on  a  big  scale,  and 
Might  comes  into  its  own,  many  preparations  must  be 
made.  This  is  no  war  of  battleaxes  and  brute  force; 
it  is  a  war  of  science,  and  no  unnecessary  chances.  It 
is  a  war  where  preparation  fills  90  per  cent,  of  the 
time.  And  those  preparations  are  many  and  varied, 
and  the  success  of  Might  depends  entirely  on  their 
accuracy. 

For  instance,  if  you  had  wandered  along  Devon 
Lane  on  Monday  morning  you  would  have  arrived  at 
the  junction  in  Number  23  Boyau — popularly  known 
as  "Fritz's  Own"  owing  to  the  large  number  of  dead 
Huns  who  graced  it  with  their  presence.  You  would 
have  perceived  Number  23  forking  away  left-handed 
to  the  front  line  thirty  or  forty  yards  ahead;  you 
would  have  seen  Devon  Lane,  under  its  new  name  of 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  6l 

Number  22,  doing  the  same  thing  towards  the  right. 
Only,  as  the  wooden  notice-boards  conveying  these 
mystic  numbers  had  long  ago  been  burnt  for  firewood, 
and  the  new  tin  ones  had  not  arrived,  all  that  you 
would  really  have  perceived  on  Monday  morning  would 
have  been  the  junction  of  two  streams  of  liquid  mud, 
lying  stagnant  and  grey  between  their  chalky  walls. 
Here  and  there  a  few  sand  bags  had  fallen  in,  forming 
a  sodden  brown  island  at  the  bottom  of  the  trench; 
here  and  there  the  decaying  end  of  a  trench-board  sat 
up  and  laughed.  If  you  stood  on  it,  the  other  end, 
working  on  the  principle  of  a  see-saw,  arose  and 
knocked  you  down;  if  you  didn't  stand  on  it,  you 
drowned.  Which  all  goes  to  show  that  it  was  an  ex- 
cellent spot  to  spend  Monday  morning. 

Firmly  gripping  his  waders  with  both  hands  as  he 
took  each  step,  an  officer  plucked  his  way  along  the 
morass  until  he  reached  the  junction.  Arrived  there, 
he  leaned  against  the  side  and  carefully  examined 
a  trench-map  which  he  produced  from  his  pocket. 
Then  once  again  he  struggled  on  up  the  right-hand 
branch  of  the  fork.  He  went  perhaps  twenty  yards, 
and  then  he  stopped,  and  cautiously  peered  over  the 
side.  His  eyes  searched  the  flat  sea  of  dirt  and  desola- 
tion in  the  hope  of  spotting  some  landmark  which 
would  serve  him  as  a  guide  for  the  job  that  had  to  be 
done  that  night.  But  the  quest  was  hopeless,  and  after 
a  moment  or  two  he  felt  in  his  pocket  for  his  com- 
pass. Taking  off  his  steel  helmet — for  accuracy  was 
essential — he  made  a  rapid  calculation. 

"True  bearing  of  the  bally  trench,   one  hundred 


62  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

and  twenty  degrees,"  he  muttered.  "Compass  bear- 
ing— one  hundred  and  thirty-two.  That  will  bring  us 
near  that  little  mound,  and " 

Ping-phat!  With  the  agility  of  a  young  lamb  the 
officer  descended  into  the  trench  and  replaced  his 
tin  hat. 

"Taking  the  air,  sapper  ?"  said  a  voice  behind  him, 
and  the  maker  of  calculations  turned  to  find  the  sec- 
ond-in-command of  the  battalion  holding  the  line  grin- 
ning gently.  "Methought  I  heard  a  little  visitor  up 
there." 

"Of  course,  James,"  returned  the  sapper  in  pained 
surprise,  "if  your  snipers  are  so  singularly  rotten  that 
they  allow  the  Hun  to  interrupt  me  in  my  work,  no  one 
can  blame  me  if  the  assembly  trench  is  laid  out  wrong." 

"Is  this  where  we  start  from?'* 

The  major  thoughtfully  filled  his  pipe. 

"A  cheery  trench  to  get  a  working-party  up  at 
night?"  he  continued. 

"Better  to  bring  'em  up  along  the  top.  Our  friend 
yonder  will  have  closed  down  by  then."  The  sapper 
replaced  his  map.  "But  I'm  thinking  we'll  have  some 
casualties  to-night." 

And  of  all  casualties  perhaps  the  working-party 
ones  are  the  most  unsatisfactory.  In  an  attack  a  man 
is  up  and  doing;  he  is  moving,  and  he  has  a  chance 
of  doing  the  killing  himself.  In  a  working-party, 
when  the  men  are  wiring  or  digging,  it's  a  different 
matter.  They  are  shot  at,  and  they  cannot  shoot  back ; 
they  are  killed,  and  they  cannot  kill  back.  And  yet 
without  the  working-party,  without  the  trenches  where 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  63 

the  other  men  later  may  assemble  before  an  assault, 
the  attack  is  bound  to  fail.  The  dull  preparations- 
out  of  the  limelight — are  as  important  as  the  final 
job — on  the  day.  Such  a  little  thing  may  cause  such  a 
big  difference.  A  trench  a  few  degrees  out  of  the  line 
in  which  it  should  be  may  throw  out  the  direction  of 
one  wave  of  the  assaulting  troops;  may  bring  them 
askew  on  to  their  objective;  may  cause  disaster.  It 
is  the  same  all  through.  One  battalion  will  gain  its 
objective  with  thirty  casualties;  the  one  next  to  it  with 
six  hundred.  And  the  reason  is  one  machine-gun  in 
an  unexpected  place,  or  an  officer's  watch  half  a  minute 
wrong.  Mais — c'est  la  guerre! 

"To  your  right,  Sergeant  Palmer.  Get  that  tape 
two  yards  to  your  right."  From  Boyau  22  came  the 
muttered  orders  to  the  N.C.O.  who  was  standing 
on  the  top.  Inside  the  boyau,  with  the  compass  laid 
carefully  on  the  side  to  give  the  direction,  stood  the 
sapper  officer.  Glowing  faintly  in  the  darkness,  the 
luminous  patches  on  the  lid  of  his  instrument  showed 
the  bearing  of  one  hundred  and  thirty-two  degrees, 
which  marked  the  direction  in  which  the  assembly 
trench  had  to  be  dug.  Before  the  infantry  working- 
party  arrived,  the  white  tracing  tape  which  showed 
them  in  the  darkness  what  they  had  to  do  must  be 
stretched  along  the  ground.  It  marked  the  front  of 
the  trench,  and  on  it  the  men  would  be  extended  at  a 
distance  of  two  yards.  Then — dig,  and  go  on  digging 
till  the  job  is  done. 

"That's  got  it.     Now  carry  on  in  that  line.     I'll 


64  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

check  you  every  fifty  yards."  The  sapper  officer 
came  out  of  the  trench,  and  followed  along  behind 
his  sergeant,  who  was  running  the  tape  off  a  stick. 
"Steady!  Let's  have  a  look  at  the  direction  now." 
With  his  compass  in  his  hand  he  peered  steadily  at  the 
white  line  on  the  ground.  "Getting  a  little  too  much 
to  the  left,  Palmer.  Save  the  mark — where's  that 
one  going  to  ?" 

Both  men  watched  with  expert  eyes  the  trail  of 
sparks  that  shot  up  into  the  air  from  the  German 
lines.  It  was  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  the 
rum  jar — so  called  because  of  its  likeness  in  appear- 
ance to  that  homely  and  delightful  commodity.  Ex- 
cept in  appearance,  however,  the  likeness  was  not 
great.  The  sparks  continued  for  a  while  and  then 
disappeared  as  the  abomination  reached  its  highest 
point  of  flight  and  started  to  descend.  You  can't  see 
it — that's  the  devil  of  it.  You  know  it's  there — above 
you — somewhere ;  you  know  that  in  about  two  seconds, 
according  to  friend  Newton's  inexorable  rule,  it  will 
no  longer  be  above  you.  You  also  know  that  one 
second  after  it  has  become  sociable,  and  returned  out 
of  the  clouds,  a  great  tearing  explosion  will  shake 
the  ground;  bits  of  metal  will  ping  like  lost  souls 
through  the  night;  a  cloud  of  stifling  fumes  will  hang 
like  a  pall  for  a  while — a  cloud  which  will  gradually 
drift  away  on  the  faint  night  breeze.  Moreover,  it 
always  happens  at  the  moment  when  you're  waiting 
that  you  remember  the  poor  devil  who  inadvertently 
went  to  ground  in  the  same  hole  as  the  rum  jar,  and 
who  was  finally  identified  by  his  boots. 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  65 

"It's  short,  I  think,  sir,"  said  the  sergeant. 

The  officer  did  not  answer.  He  was  listening,  wait- 
ing for  the  soft  thud  which  would  announce  the  ar- 
rival of  the  Hun's  little  message  of  love.  Suddenly 
he  heard  it — ominously  near.  There  was  a  faint 
swishing  as  the  rum  jar  came  down  through  the  air, 
and  then  a  squelching  thud.  As  if  actuated  by  a  single 
string,  the  two  men  dived  into  a  shell  hole  and 
crouched,  waiting. 

"It's  near,  sir!"  The  sergeant  just  got  out  the 
words  before  it  came.  A  shower  of  mud  and  water 
rained  down  on  them,  and  the  fumes  drifting  over  left 
them  coughing  and  spluttering.  With  a  metallic  ring 
a  lump  of  metal  hit  the  officer  on  his  hat,  and  then 
once  more  silence  reigned. 

"Damned  near!  Far  too  damned  near!  If  they're 
going  to  send  over  many  of  those,  Palmer,  we're  go- 
ing to  have  quite  a  cheery  time.  Where  was  it  ex- 
actly?" 

"Here,  sir!"  The  N.C.O.'s  voice  came  to  him  out 
of  the  darkness.  "It's  cut  the  tape." 

Just  one  of  the  little  things.  Had  they  started 
from  Boyau  22  a  quarter  of  a  minute  after  they  did, 
that  rum  jar  would  have  bagged  a  bigger  quarry  than 
a  piece  of  white  tracing  tape. 

"Knot  it  together.  We  must  be  getting  a  move  on, 
Palmer.  The  working-party  will  be  here  soon." 

It  was  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  to  be  exact,  that 
the  two  men  retraced  their  footsteps  along  the  tape 
towards  Boyau  22.  No  more  rum  jars  had  come  to 
disturb  them ;  only  the  great  green  flares  had  gone  on 


66  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

continuously  lobbing  up  into  the  night.  From  away 
to  the  south,  where  the  horizon  flickered  and  danced 
with  the  flashes  of  the  guns,  there  came  a  ceaseless, 
monotonous  rumble ;  but  at  Devon  Lane  all  was  peace. 
Everything  was  ready  for  the  alteration  of  the  land- 
scape; only  the  actual  performers,  who  would  pre- 
pare fresh  vistas  for  the  beholders  on  Tuesday  morn- 
ing, were  absent. 

The  sapper  officer  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Very  nicely  timed,  Palmer.  I  hope  they're  not 
late." 


To  those  who  are  wont  to  think  of  war  as  an  oc- 
cupation teeming  with  excitement  the  digging  of  an 
assembly  trench  by  a  working-party  will  probably  seem 
a  singularly  flat  entertainment.  And,  in  parenthesis, 
one  may  say  that  it  is  the  heartfelt  wish  of  all  the 
performers  that  it  will  prove  so. 

Since  work  of  that  sort  fills  by  far  the  greater  part 
of  the  madness  called  war,  and  since  the  appetite  for 
excitement  of  the  death-or-glory  type  is  more  prev- 
alent in  stones  than  in  reality,  all  that  the  average 
digger  asks  for  is  easy  soil  and  a  quick  finish. 

But  let  us  labour  under  no  delusions.  There  is  room 
during  the  night's  work  for  enough  excitement  to 
satisfy  the  veriest  glutton ;  and  though  the  occupation 
would  not  thrill  crowded  houses  at  the  "movies"  if  it 
were  filmed,  it  can  be  jumpy — deuced  jumpy !  Things 
do  happen. 

Suddenly  the  metallic  clang  of  a  pick  on  a  shovel 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  67 

made  the  sapper  look  up,  and  at  the  same  moment  a 
low  voice  hailed  him. 

"Are  you  there,  sapper?     The  men  are  behind." 

There  is  something  oddly  mysterious  in  watching 
a  party  filing  past  in  the  darkness.  The  occasional 
creak  of  equipment,  the  heavy  breathing  of  the  men, 
the  sudden  curse  as  some  one  slips — all  tend  to  help 
the  illusion  that  one  is  watching  some  sinister  deed. 

They  crowd  on  one  out  of  the  night,  looming  up  in 
turn,  and  disappearing  again  into  the  darkness.  Now 
and  again,  as  a  flare  lights  up  everything,  the  whole 
line  becomes  motionless.  Crouching,  rigid,  each  man 
waits,  with  the  green  light  shining  on  his  face. 

Away — right  away — until  one  loses  it  in  the  night, 
runs  the  line  of  silent  men.  Just  so  many  units — 
that's  all;  so  many  pawns  in  the  great  game.  In  a 
moment,  when  the  darkness  comes  again,  they  will  be 
passing  on,  these  pawns,  once  more;  they  will  have 
become  dim  shapes,  squelching  by. 

But  just  for  that  moment  it's  different.  The  human 
touch  comes  in;  the  man  stooping  beside  one  is  an 
individual — not  a  pawn.  Perhaps  there's  a  smile  on 
his  face;  perhaps  there's  a  curse  on  his  lips.  Per- 
haps he's  a  stockbroker;  perhaps  he's  a  navvy. 

But,  whatever  he  is,  whatever  he  looks  like,  for  the 
moment  he  is  not  a  shape. 

He  is  an  individual;  and  he — that  individual — may 
be  the  man  to  stop  a  stray  bullet  before  the  dawn.  But 
then,  for  that  matter,  so  may  you.  So  what's  the  use 
of  worrying,  anyway? 


68  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

"Been  quiet  up  to  date?"  The  officer  in  charge 
of  the  working-party  strolled  slowly  along  the  line 
of  digging  men  with  the  sapper.  The  chink  of  a  pick 
on  a  stone,  the  soft  fall  of  the  excavated  earth,  the 
dim  line  of  figures  bending  and  heaving,  bending  and 
heaving,  silently  and  regularly,  showed  that  the  night's 
work  had  begun. 

"A  rum  jar  unpleasingly  close  was  the  only  excite- 
ment," returned  the  sapper.  "But  there's  plenty  of 
time  yet,  so  don't  despair." 

"Gaw  lumme!"  A  hoarse  voice  from  just  in  front 
of  them  made  them  stop,  and  they  saw  one  of  the 
men  peering  into  the  hole  where  he  was  digging. 
"Gaw  lumme!  'Erb,  we've  struck  the  blinking  bag  of 
nuts  'ere!" 

The  information  apparently  left  'Erb  cold.  "Wot's 
the  matter  ?"  he  demanded.  "Got  a  Fritz  ?" 

"Not  'arf,  I  ain't!  Lumme!  Ain't  'e  a  fair  treat? 
'Idden  treasure  ain't  in  it!" 

But  the  two  officers  had  not  waited  for  further  ex- 
plorations. With  due  attention  to  the  direction  of  the 
wind,  they  faded  away,  and  left  the  proud  discoverer 
to  his  own  devices. 

"How  the  devil,"  remarked  the  sapper,  "some  of 
these  fellows  can  stand  it  I  don't  know!  That  Hun 
was  guaranteed  to  make  a  Maltese  goat  unconscious 
at  the  range  of  a  mile." 

"I  remember  taking  over  a  line  once  where  the  para- 
pet was  revetted  with  'em,"  said  the  infantryman. 
"It's  all  a  question  of  habit." 

And  so  is  most  of  this  war — a  question  of  habit. 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  69 

iWhere  Death  is  such  a  common  visitor,  it  stands  to 
reason  he  loses  much  of  his  horror.  If  it  were  not  so, 
men  would  go  mad.  But,  mercifully  for  them,  a 
callousness  numbs  their  sensibilities,  and  the  dead  are 
just  part  of  the  scenery.  It  will  not  last. 

In  time  the  crust  will  break  away,  and  a  man's 
outlook  on  life  will  become  as  it  once  was.  The  things 
that  are  happening  over  the  water  will  seem  to  them 
then  a  dream,  and  the  horror  of  that  dream  will  be 
glossed  over  by  the  kindly  hand  of  Time.  Only  a  cer- 
tain contempt  of  Death  will  remain — the  legacy  of 
their  present  mood. 

"Clang !"  The  noise  came  distinctly  to  the  two 
officers  standing  for  a  few  minutes  in  Devon  Lane. 

'That's  it!"  said  the  infantryman  irritably.  "Let's 
have  a  brass  band  while  we're  at  it.  A  machine-gun 
on  this  little  lot,  would  be  the  deuce." 

"There  are  a  lot  of  stray  rifle  bullets  coming  across," 
remarked  the  other.  "I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  that 
wasn't  one  of  them  getting  busy." 

They  scrambled  out  of  the  trench,  and  even  as  they 
got  on  the  top  the  ominous  order  for  stretcher-bearers 
came  down  the  line. 

"Who  is  it,  Sergeant  Ratcliffe?"  said  the  infantry- 
man. 

"Don't  know,  sir.  Some  one  up  the  other  end,  I 
think." 

To  be  exact,  it  was  'Erb.  There  lies  the  impartiality 
of  it  all.  It  might  have  been  the  finder  of  the  bag  of 
nuts ;  it  might  have  been  any  of  the  two  hundred  odd 
men  stretched  out  along  the  tape.  Just  a  stray,  un- 


70  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

aimed  bullet  loosed  off  by  a  sentry  into  the  blue,  and 
'Erb  had  stopped  it. 

They  found  him  lying  on  the  ground,  and  because 
he  was  a  man,  and  a  big  man,  for  all  his  shortness,  he 
wasn't  making  a  fuss.  Just  now  and  again  he  gave  a 
little  groan,  and  his  feet  drummed  feebly  on  the 
ground.  Around  him  there  crouched  three  or  four 
others,  who,  with  clumsy  gentleness,  were  trying  to 
make  the  passing  easier. 

"Don't  bunch,  men."  The  infantryman's  voice 
made  them  look  up.  "The  stretcher-bearers  are  com- 
ing, so  get  on  with  your  job." 

He  knelt  down  beside  the  dying  man. 

"Where  were  you  hit,  lad  ?  They'll  be  here  for  you 
in  a  minute." 

"No  use  this  time,  sir.  I've  blinking  well  copped 
it  through  the  back!"  His  voice  was  feeble,  and  as 
he  finished  speaking  he  groaned  and  moved  weakly. 
"Lumme!  And  I  was  due  for  leave!"  The  words 
trailed  away  into  a  whisper,  and  the  officer,  bending 
over  him,  caught  a  woman's  name. 

Screening  the  light  with  his  body,  he  flashed  his 
torch  for  a  moment  ori  to  the  man's  face.  Then  he 
stood  up,  and  the  sapper  beside  him  saw  him  shake  his 
head. 

"None  so  dusty,  Liza.  You  weren't  much  to  look 
at — but" — once  again  he  was  silent — "it  ain't  fair, 
sir — it  ain't  fair — not  altogether." 

"What  isn't,  lad?"    The  officer  bent  over  him. 

"My  cousin,  sir.  Ten  pounds  a  week.  Unmarried. 
Blarsthim!" 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  7! 

Ten  seconds  later  the  stretcher-bearers  arrived,  but 
the  soul  of  'Erb  had  already  started  on  the  Great 
Journey.  And  if  he  went  into  the  Valley  with  an 
oath  on  his  lips,  maybe  the  Judge  is  human.  It  ain't 
fair — not  altogether 

Such  are  the  little  thumb-nail  sketches  of  the  game 
over  the  water.  There  are  thousands  similar,  and 
yet  each  one  is  different — for  each  one  is  the  tragedy 
of  the  individual  to  some  one.  The  stretcher-bearers 
took  him  away,  and  later,  in  one  of  the  military  ceme- 
teries behind  the  line  there  will  appear  a  cross,  plain 
and  unpretentious — "No.  1234  Private  Herbert  Mus- 
son.  The  Loamshires.  R.I.P."  But  that  is  later.  At 
present  all  that  matters  is  that  'Erb  has  copped  it,  and 
the  blinking  trench  has  got  to  be  finished. 

It's  got  to  be  used,  that  trench,  in  a  few  days. 
Men  will  have  to  sit  there  and  wait.  The  shells  will 
be  screaming  over  them,  the  ground  will  be  shaking 
—one  of  the  show-pieces  of  war,  beloved  of  the  news- 
paper correspondent,  will  be  about  to  start.  And 
unless  the  trench  has  been  finished,  and  finished  cor- 
rectly, by  the  'Erbs,  the  show-piece  may  fail. 

So  that  if  you  regard  'Erb  as  a  pawn,  the  price  is 
not  great.  Unfortunately,  to  Liza  he's  an  individual. 
And  that  is  the  tragedy  of  war. 


VI 

Now  Shorty  Bill  liked  digging  as  little  as  any  one 
else.      He   agreed   to   the    full   with   Oscar  Wilde's 


72  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

profound  aphorism  that  man  is  made  for  something 
better  than  disturbing  dirt.  But  once  get  it  into  his 
head  that  a  job  had  to  be  done,  and  he  did  it — cheer- 
fully. And  in  that  last  word  is  contained  the  very 
essence  of  the  good  soldier.  .  .  .  More  than  that,  it  is 
the  doctrine  of  Life. 

"Grin,  son,  grin."  Thus  Shorty's  constant  exhorta- 
tion to  all  and  sundry.  And  surely  it's  the  only  sermon 
that  matters  a  curse — grin.  "I  guess  I'm  no  great 
shakes  on  the  religion  stunt — but  grin,  you  perisher, 
grin."  Thus  did  he  unofficially  join  forces  with  the 
padre,  and  they  became  sworn  friends.  Because,  when 
two  men  of  understanding  meet  little  things  don't  mat- 
ter much.  It's  the  main  big  thing  that  counts,  and  on 
that  they  agreed — right  away.  And  Shorty  altered 
his  whole  opinion  of  the  Holy  Catholic  Church. 

It  was  one  Sunday  morning  that  Shorty  found  him- 
self occupying  a  front  seat  in  the  divisional  canteen, 
while  Divine  Service  was  in  progress.  In  his  exalted 
position  sleep  was  impossible,  but  his  mind  had  wan- 
dered during  the  performance  to  the  relative  number 
of  notches  on  his  rifle  and  his  own  peculiar  weapon. 
The  padre  was  talking,  and  Shorty  heard  him  half 
consciously.  He  was  a  new  man,  and  to  Shorty  just 
a  mere  devil  dodger  like  the  last.  Then,  suddenly, 
came  the  revelation :  and  Shorty  very  nearly  created  a 
scene  by  cheering. 

"Well,  you  fellows,  I  am  not  going  to  talk  to  you 
any  more  this  morning."  The  padre  shut  his  book 
with  a  bang.  "All  I  want  to  get  into  your  heads  is 
the  one  word  'Grin.'  Keep  smiling,  boys;  be  cheerful 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  73 

— no  long  faces.  'Grin.*  We  will  now  sing  Hymn 
Number  24  in  the  little  book — and  let  drive,  boys,  let 
drive.  Take  the  top  off  the  tent.  Ah,  bless  the  dog! 
.  .  ."  The  remaining  words  of  the  speaker  were  lost 
in  the  slight  confusion  that  was  caused  by  a  large  yel- 
low dog — temporarily  running  amok — which  had  be- 
come entangled  in  his  surplice,  and  had  deposited  him 
forcibly  between  two  large  beer  barrels  just  behind 
the  little  platform  on  which  he  was  standing. 

But  what  matter?  A  crack  piano  wheezed  out  the 
tune,  the  padre  plucked  from  his  face  two  cases  of 
woodbines  and  a  cake  of  soap,  which  had  accom- 
panied him  in  his  rapid  descent,  and  then  with  his 
clear  strong  baritone  he  led  off  with  the  opening  words. 
That  mighty  roar  which  comes  when  a  battalion — or 
all  of  it  that  the  canteen  marquee  will  hold — starts  to 
sing;  that  slow  grand  volume  of  men's  voices,  which 
brings  the  glint  of  perhaps  long-forgotten  things  to 
the  eyes  of  those  who  hear,  rolled  out,  drowning  the 
piano,  glossing  over  the  fact  that  at  least  three  of  the 
most  important  notes  were — in  the  vernacular — napoo. 
The  peasants,  clustered  in  the  doors  of  the  little  vil- 
lage street,  listened  silently ;  and  though  the  guns  were 
speaking  just  as  usual,  and  along  the  pave  a  motor 
lorry  was  stolidly  bumping,  for  the  moment  war  was 
forgotten.  Not  their  creed,  it's  true;  but  what  are 
creeds  and  schisms  when  the  Great  Reaper  is  at  every 
man's  side — day  and  night?  And  if  they  thought  of 
it  at  all,  maybe  they  realised  that  the  same  Power  Who 
gently  receives  their  widow's  mite,  their  sou,  their  little 
offering  at  the  shrine  opposite,  where  the  glass  is 


74  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

cracked  and  the  weeds  are  growing — the  Power  Who 
in  their  trusting  faith  will  bring  them  back  their 
Jacques,  their  Pierre ;  even  that  same  Power  is  listen- 
ing to  the  hymn  that  rolls  out  from  the  tent  near  by. 
The  means  are  different ;  the  results  are  the  same. 

A  great  Amen  rings  out  into  the  frosty  air,  and 
from  inside  the  tent  there  comes  a  sudden  peculiar 
shuffling  which  may  be  heard  once  during  every  serv- 
ice in  a  military  church.  It  is  the  men  moving  their 
feet  to  come  to  attention,  and  the  signal  is  one  note 
from  the  cracked  piano.  Then  once  again  the  singing 
starts,  and  the  peasants  nudge  one  another  as  they 
recognise  the  tune.  It  is  the  English  "Marseillaise"; 
it  is  "the  King."  Two  minutes  afterwards  the  men 
stream  out;  hats  are  put  on,  markers  are  called  for. 
A  word  of  command,  and  the  battalion  swings  away 
down  the  road;  the  service  is  over.  The  canteen  re- 
sumes its  normal  appearance,  and  even  while  the  padre 
is  removing  his  belongings  and  putting  them  in  his 
little  bag,  a  stoutish  gentleman  of  uncompromising 
aspect,  who  officiates  behind  the  bar,  comes  back  to  his 
lawful  domain.  .  .  . 

Thus  was  formed  the  alliance  between  the  padre 
and  Shorty :  which  endured  until  death.  As  a  clergy- 
man of  the  orthodox  Church  of  England  giving  tongue 
to  the  virtuous  of  Slupton-under-Slush,  I  would  have 
reckoned  him  a  non-starter.  But  as  a  padre  amongst 
men,  where  the  game  is  your  life  or  the  other  man's, 
where  the  conversation  is  not  that  which  holds  in  the 
drawing-rooms  of  respectability — though  a  damned 
sight  less  noxious  in  many  cases — where  rum  and  beer 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  75 

replace  lime-juice  and  tea,  and  a  man  is  all  the -better 
for  them — there,  I  say,  he  was  a  prince  among  men. 
He  was  worth  an  army  corps  to  his  side. 

It  was  his  cheerfulness  that  was  such  a  godsend; 
nothing  ever  perturbed  him.  A  smiling  face  in  France 
is  worth  a  bottle  of  champagne  every  time  you  see  it ; 
and  if  a  man  can't  smile  naturally  he  should  go  into  a 
secret  place  and  practise  daily.  His  conjuring  enter- 
tainment, for  instance,  was  worth  a  small  fortune  to 
every  one  who  saw  it,  owing  to  the  wild  hilarity  which 
greeted  it.  For  a  few  hours  he  helped  the  men  to  for- 
get, which  is  the  sole  object  of  all  the  concert  troupes 
and  cinemas  behind  the  line.  They  are  not  a  sign,  as 
some  misguided  individuals  apparently  think,  that  we 
do  not  take  the  war  seriously  in  France :  they  are  the 
very  wise  result  of  a  very  human  man  who  understood 
the  psychology  of  those  under  him.  And  so  the  padre 
conjured. 

I  have  forgotten  most  of  the  tricks  he  failed  to  do 
— for  let  me  say  at  once  he  was  no  expert.  One  only 
I  remember  clearly,  and  that  was  the  last,  though 
there  were  many  others.  The  watch  which  turned  into 
a  rabbit  and  back  again  he  had  unfortunately  smashed 
with  a  hammer  owing  to  hitting  the  wrong  bundle; 
and  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment  the  rabbit  had 
escaped,  and  died  dreadfully  at  the  back  of  the  hall. 
On  every  occasion  he  had  named  the  wrong  card 
amidst  howls  of  delight ;  and  then  came  the  last  one — 
the  vanishing  billiard  ball. 

Unabashed  by  his  past  failures,  and  with  his  face 
shining  joyfully,  the  padre  advanced  and  addressed  the 


76  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

audience.  O'Toole — the  wild  Irishman — whom  the 
padre  had  roped  in  to  help  him,  was  dancing  in  the 
wings  with  excitement  as  the  bonne  bouche  of  the  per- 
formance approached.  For  the  benefit  of  the  un- 
initiated I  might  explain  that  the  trick  consists  of 
rubbing  a  billiard  ball  between  one's  hands  until  it 
gradually  disappears.  Its  resting-place  is  really  a 
small  bag — hung  like  a  sporran — of  the  same  colour  as 
the  performer's  trousers,  into  which,  by  deft  manipula- 
tion, the  ball  is  dropped. 

"Now,  boys,"  began  the  performer,  "I  come  to 
my  last  trick.  A  wonderful  trick!  I  have  been  of- 
fered thousands  to  give  away  the  secret.  You  see 
the  billiard  ball;  no  delusion — a  nice  good-looking 
billiard  ball.  I  propose  to  make  it  vanish  before  your 
eyes,  by  rubbing  it  between  my  hands.  Quite  easy; 
no  deception.  I  just  rub  and  rub  and  rub — and  there 
you  are." 

"Only  too  true,"  murmured  the  colonel,  as  with  a 
loud  crash  the  ball  ricochetted  off  the  conjuror's  foot, 
shot  across  the  stage,  and  came  to  rest  amongst  the 
orchestra.  "I  only  hope  it  hasn't  smashed  the  big 
drum." 

"That's  the  worst  of  these  French  billiard  balls," 
remarked  the  performer,  quite  unmoved.  "I'll  just 
try  it  once  again — with  the  red  this  time." 

Once  again  a  breathless  silence  settled  on  the  audi- 
ence. The  padre  rubbed  and  rubbed,  and  the  billiard 
ball  was  slowly  brought  down  towards  its  final  resting- 
place. 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  77 

"It's  vanishing/'  howled  an  enthusiast  from  the 
front  row.  "It's  gettin'  smaller,  every  second." 

Lower  and  lower  came  his  hands,  and  the  excitement 
became  painful.  As  every  one  knew  the  trick,  the 
betting  on  whether  he'd  get  it  in  the  bag  or  not  was 
fast  and  furious.  Shorty  Bill  was  heard  making  a 
book  half  way  down  the  room,  in  the  intervals  of 
shouting  advice  to  his  ally  on  the  stage — and  then 
O'Toole  spoiled  it  all. 

With  a  loud  shout  he  dashed  in  from  the  wings, 
carrying  in  his  hand  the  little  bag  the  padre  had  for- 
gotten to  put  on.  With  an  agonised  dive  he  caught 
the  ball  as  it  crashed,  and  stood  up  triumphantly. 

"  'Tis  gone,  padre,  dear,  gone  entoirely  this  trip. 
But  'shure  I  was  only  just  in  toime  with  the  little 
bag.  .  .  ." 

And  thus,  while  he  was  with  us,  did  a  very  gallant 
gentleman  play  the  game.  Always  did  the  entertain- 
ment finish  the  same  way.  Gradually  silence  would 
settle  on  the  audience,  and  the  padre — standing  on  the 
platform — would  watch  the  rows  of  upturned  faces 
through  the  grey  blue  of  smoke.  His  eyes  grave  and 
quiet,  with  the  kindly  glint  of  a  God-sent  humour  in 
them,  seemed  to  search  each  individual  heart  in  the 
room;  for  to  each  of  them  he  was  a  personal  friend. 
Gently  at  first,  then  swelling  to  a  mighty  roar,  one  or 
two  of  the  old,  old  songs  would  roll  out  into  the  night. 
Not  ragtime  then — that -came  earlier  in  the  evening 
— but  the  songs  that  count,  and  that  mean  something 
to  a  man  when  he  hears  them,  wherever  he  is,  who- 
ever he  may  be,  saving  only  that  he  shall  be  British. 


78  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

The  songs  that  conjure  up  the  red  lanes  of  Devon,  and 
the  crags  of  Cumberland;  the  marshes  of  the  fen 
country,  and  the  rolling  downs  of  Sussex;  the  songs 
that  conjure  up  England  to  men  whose  steps  have  led 
them  to  the  Lands  beyond  the  Mountains.  For  they 
tell  of  the  glory  of  our  island — the  glory  which  is 
eternal,  the  glory  which  can  never  be  dimmed.  And  to 
every  one  of  her  sons  they  come  as  a  whisper  of  what 
has  been,  is,  and  ever  more  shall  be.  ... 

Then  at  the  last  the  padre  would  raise  his  hand,  and 
in  the  solemn  hush  his  strong,  clear  voice  would  start 
some  well-known  hymn.  Shyly  at  first,  for  the  words 
were  unfamiliar,  the  men  would  join  in.  To  some  it 
meant  but  little,  to  others  the  years  rolled  away  and 
they  were  back  again  in  the  mists  of  memory,  in  the 
land  that  is  peopled  with  glorious  chances.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  little  cottage  with  the  smell  of  peat  in  the 
room,  and  the  harmonium  wheezing  in  the  corner 
while  the  sun  set  in  a  blaze  of  golden  glory  over  the 
purple  hills;  perhaps  it  was  a  great  cathedral,  with 
the  choir  boys'  voices  stealing  softly  out  of  the  grey 
dusk,  and  a  woman  kneeling  close  beside;  perhaps  it 
was  just  a  nursery,  and  a  fire,  and  a  Mother.  But 
whatever  it  was,  however  bitter  the  contrast  with  the 
present,  for  just  a  fleeting  second  a  man  might  draw 
near  to  God,  and  in  drawing  near — forget.  I  have 
seen  a  hardened  rascal,  the  despair  of  his  officers,  wip- 
ing his  eyes  surreptitiously  with  the  back  of  his  hand ; 
and  what  matter  if  he  was  on  the  mat  again  next  day? 
For  just  a  moment  he  had  been  as  a  little  child,  and 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  79 

there  had  been  granted  to  him  the  tears  that  cast  out 
bitterness.  And  there  is  no  more  precious  gift.  .  .  . 

But  we  lost  our  padre,  though  the  spirit  he  left  be- 
hind him  will  never  be  lost.  He  died  as  he  would  have 
wished  to  die,  alongside  the  men  he  loved  .  .  .  The 
stretchers-bearers  had  brought  in  a  remnant  to  the 
dressing-station — a  remnant  with  the  flicker  of  life  still 
in  it.  It  was  beyond  human  aid — that  poor,  mutilated 
fragment — as  it  lay  in  the  light  of  the  guttering  candles 
breathing  in  stertorous  gasps.  There  were  other  things 
for  the  doctor  to  do :  and  so  the  padre  sat  beside  the 
thing  that  had  been  a  man  half-an-hour  previously. 
The  padre  knew  his  history,  at  least  as  much  of  it  as 
any  one  did.  For  there  are  many  who  are  not  given  to 
talking  of  the  past.  .  .  . 

In  the  ranks  of  the  old  Army  one  occasionally  met 
the  man  whose  hands  bore  traces  of  having,  at  one 
time  or  another,  been  used  to  the  attentions  of  the 
manicurist :  whose  accent  was  not  as  that  of  those 
with  whom  he  lived,  whose  eyes  when  they  met  those 
of  his  officer  held  in  them  that  cynical  glint,  that  name- 
less something  which  told  its  own  tale.  Sometimes 
they  made  good  those  gentlemen  rankers,  and  some- 
times they  found  what  they  sought — the  sniper's  bul- 
let righting  on  the  outposts  of  Empire,  at  the  back 
of  beyond.  More  often  the  latter,  for  they  were  a 
hard-bitten  crowd,  and  black  sheep — tired  black  sheep 
— have  a  way  of  remaining  black  to  the  end. 

In  the  ranks  of  the  new  Army,  things  are  different. 
To-day,  where  all  classes  and  types  are  bound  together 
in  the  one  big  family  of  the  Regiment,  where  the: 


8o  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

grocer's  son  has  a  commission  and  the  stockbroker 
is  in  the  ranks,  the  same  contrast  does  not  exist.  When 
a  private  can  read  Virgil,  and  the  platoon  commander 
cannot  write  English ;  when  a  corporal  has  earned  four 
figures  annually  as  a  flat-race  jockey,  and  the  sergeant 
has  been  in  Holy  Orders,  things  are  apt  to  get  a  little 
mixed.  And  yet  even  now,  just  as  formerly,  the  black 
sheep  are  there.  More  hidden  perhaps,  harder  to  find, 
but  there  just  the  same,  with  the  same  cynical  glint 
in  their  eyes — only  sometimes  when  no  one  is  looking 
it's  tired,  not  cynical ;  with  the  same  indefinable  set  of 
the  shoulder,  with  the  same  half -humorous  twist  of  the 
mouth.  These  are  not  your  'Varsity  experts ;  these  are 
not  your  stockbrokers  and  other  men  of  gentle  birth 
who  have  joined  the  ranks.  These  are  the  men  who 
have  made  a  mess  of  things  before  the  war :  the  men 
who  came  to  grief  in  the  game  of  life,  and  who  don't 
care  if  they  come  to  grief  in  the  game  of  death.  .  .  . 

And  it  was  such  an  one  the  stretcher-bearers  had 
carried  in.  What  matter  the  failure  now?  It  was 
over — the  piteous  maimed  thing  was  just  part  of  the 
price. 

And  there  are  those  who  talk  of  the  Glory  of  War; 
of  our  jesting  soldiers.  .  .  .  There  can  be  no  Glory 
against  high  explosive:  the  jest  but  covers  a  heart — 
sick  or  callous — according  to  the  nature  of  its  owner. 

"I  ...  did  .  .  .  try."  The  padre  saw  he  was 
speaking  more  through  the  eager  look  in  the  glazing 
eyes  than  by  anything  he  heard. 

"What  is  it,  boy?"  he  asked  leaning  forward. 
Overhead  the  shells  were  carrying  on  the  same  old 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  81 

game  of  mutilation,  and  the  roof  of  the  dressing-sta- 
tion shook  with  each  concussion. 

"No  use,  padre.  I  never  had  a  fair  chance."  The 
feeble  voice  carried  on,  and  then  was  silent.  For  a 
few  moments  it  seemed  that  the  fragment  had  found 
peace — it  lay  so  still. 

The  doctor  paused  for  a  moment  as  he  passed. 
With  the  sweat  dripping  off  his  forehead  he  had  been 
working  continuously  for  eight  hours,  and  his  face 
was  drawn  and  haggard.  As  fast  as  he  got  the  men 
away  in  ambulances,  others  came  in  to  fill  their  place. 
Men  wheezing  and  choking  with  mustard  gas — 
blistered  and  burning  where  the  liquid  had  caught 
them:  men  shot  through  the  stomach — men  shot 
through  the  head :  men  with  a  leg  torn  off  by  a  bit  of 
a  shell- — men  with  an  arm  hanging  by  a  thread.  Silent 
mostly:  though  every  now  and  then  a  piteous  moan 
would  be  wrung  from  some  wretched  sufferer.  It  was 
hell — just  a  corner  of  it:  a  corner  where  I  would 
that  some  of  our  wretched  German  lovers  might  spend 
an  hour.  For  though  it  is  the  same  on  the  other  side — 
the  Hun  started  it.  .  .  . 

"Can  you  come  over  here,  padre."  The  M.O.'s  voice 
was  tired.  "You  can't  do  anything  there;  and  there's 
a  sergeant.  ..." 

Then  it  came.  One  of  the  crumps  that  had  been 
falling  all  about  the  aid  post  struck  the  roof.  To 
any  one  seeing  it  from  outside  it  was  much  the  same 
as  any  other  crump.  A  few  sheets  of  corrugated  iron 
flew  upwards  in  the  black  cloud  of  smoke ;  the  passers- 
fcy  ducked  and  then  passed  on.  But  inside  ...  no 


82  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

words  can  describe  it ;  no  brush  could  paint  it.  It  was 
utterly  hideous:  a  shambles — reeking  and  bloody.  It 
was  war ;  the  product  of  Kultur.  A  few  things  crawled 
out  moaning;  but  for  the  rest  ... 

Thus  did  a  Failure  cross  the  Great  Divide,  with 
our  padre  at  his  side  to  help  him.  And  thus  for  two 
days  did  they  lie  together — with  those  others — until 
Shorty  brought  his  ally  back.  No  one  has  ever  heard 
what  Shorty  did  during  those  two  days  and  nights ;  no 
one  ever  will.  But  he  came  back  with  the  padre  slung 
over  his  shoulder,  and  a  look  in  his  eyes  which  for- 
bad any  questions.  His  head  was  gashed,  and  he  had 
a  bullet  through  his  leg,  but  on  his  own  peculiar  weapon 
were  a  row  of  notches  which  had  not  been  there  be- 
fore. And  when,  a  few  days  later,  the  line  once  again 
advanced  and  the  ground  in  front  became  the  ground 
behind,  the  burying  parties — callous  though  men  be- 
come of  such  things — told  some  strange  and  fearful 
stories  of  what  they  had  found  in  odd  shell  holes.  Of 
course  it  was  nothing  to  do  with  Shorty ;  but  then,  the 
little  bunch  of  wild  flowers  in  a  jam  tin  on  a  grave 
way  back  behind  was  nothing  to  do  with  him  either. 


VII 

And  now  let  me  turn  for  a  while  to  another  of 
Shorty's  friends — and  one  who,  incidentally,  was 
also  a  friend  of  mine.  They  were  an  ill-assorted 
collection — those  friends  of  his — from  a  social  point  of 
view;  but  they  all  had  one  thing  in  common.  They 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  83 

were  Men — in  the  Land  where  Men  are  wanted.  And 
that  is  enough.  .  .  . 

I  met  him  quite  unexpectedly  in  the  course  of  a 
wander  along  a  slowly  moving  mass  of  sticky  glue 
which  was  falsely  known  as  a  trench.  Misguided 
optimists  at  head-quarters  were  wont  to  speak  gaily  of 
revetting  and  deepening,  of  constructing  fire  steps  and 
building  up  the  parados  with  special  attention  to  the 
berm — and  having  spoken  they  concluded  that  it  was 
so.  It  wasn't ;  it  remained  mud.  It  will  remain  mud 
to  the  end. 

And  so  one  morning,  plucking  my  way  along  this 
delectable  resort,  I  encountered  another  plucker.  He 
was  one  of  those  who  carried  out  the  deepening  pro- 
gramme; I  was  one  of  those  who  reported  that  he 
had,  and  if  he  and  his  laughed  as  consumedly  over 
his  work  as  I  did  over  my  reports,  they  must  have  had 
a  merry  time.  With  his  sleeve  rolled  up  he  was  delving 
into  an  apparently  bottomless  hole  filled  with  slush, 
and  I  waited  for  him  to  finish.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I 
had  already  walked  fifty  yards,  and  being  therefore 
completely  exhausted,  I  sat  on  an  island  for  a  space 
and  communed  with  the  company  commander  who 
was  going  round  with  me. 

It  was  then  that  the  delver,  having  discovered  the 
boot,  mess  tin,  or  what  not  which  was  the  cause  of 
the  dredging  operations,  looked  up,  and  our  eyes  met. 
Encased  as  he  was  in  a  layer  of  dried  mud,  I  might 
have  passed  him  by — khaki  is  a  wonderful  alterer  of 
men.  But  a  sudden  grin  on  his  face  as  he  looked  at 


84  THE  HITMAN  TOUCH 

me  made  me  glance  at  him  again,  and  instantly  I 
recognised  him. 

"Well,  Pete,"  I  said,  "how  goes  it?" 

"Nicely,  thank  you,  sir,"  he  answered.  "I  'opes 
yer  orl  rite  yerself,  sir." 

"I've  been  worse,"  I  assured  him.  "How's  Kate? 
The  last  time  I  saw  her,  she  was  rather  angry  with 
me,  if  I  remember  aright." 

He  grinned  again.  "She  sees  things  different  now, 
sir.  She  was  that  pleased  over  this  'ere,  there  weren't 
no  'olding  'er."  "This  'ere,"  I  ultimately  discovered 
under  the  prevailing  camouflage  of  filth  to  be  the  rib- 
bon of  the  Military  Medal. 

We  talked  a  bit  longer  and  then  we  left  him  to  con- 
tinue the  round. 

"What  sort  of  a  fellow  is  he?"  I  asked  my  com- 
panion when  we  were  out  of  earshot. 

"First  class — one  of  the  best.  The  only  trouble  is 
that  he's  very  intolerant  of  authority,  especially 
N.C.O.'s."  I  grinned  gently  to  myself.  "But  a  good 
man;  always  doing  some  stunt  of  his  own,  that's  got 
a  bit  of  excitement  in  it.  Did  you  know  Smith  be- 
fore the  war?" 

"Smith?    Is  that  his  name,"  I  returned  guardedly. 

It  was  the  second-in-command's  turn  to  grin.  "That 
is  the  name  under  which  he  has  enlisted." 

"A  rose  by  any  other  name,"  I  mumured.  "I 
certainly  knew  him  before  the  war,  but  not  as  Smith." 

"And  what  was  he?" 

"Well — he  was  always  doing  some  stunt  of  his 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  85 

own,"  I  returned.  "And  he  was,  as  you  say,  intolerant 
of  authority." 

We  wandered  on,  and  the  conversation  closed.  But 
that  evening,  having  reported  for  the  fifteenth  time 
that  work  was  proceeding  on  Acacia  Avenue,  and  that 
the  further  time  required  for  completion  was  five  years 
or  the  duration,  my  thoughts  came  back  to  " Smith/' 
Although  I  have  no  doubt  his  case  is  not  unique,  yet 
it  may  be  of  interest  to  some  who  are  students  of 
human  nature.  There  is  no  story  with  a  plot  about 
him ;  he  just  was  and,  as  far  as  I  know,  is,  which  is 
all  that  can  be  said  of  most  of  us.  ... 

It  was  some  time  in  1908  that  an  unmerciful  fate 
decreed  that  I  should  spend  two  days  of  hard-earned 
leave  with  an  aged  aunt  who  lived  in  Hampstead.  In 
addition  to  having  to  lie  on  one's  bedroom  floor  and 
blow  the  smoke  up  the  chimney  if  one  desired  a  ciga- 
rette, there  had  been  obtained,  with  great  forethought, 
a  bottle  of  invalid  port,  which  must  have  cost  at  least 
two  shillings.  The  combination  of  these  two  things, 
and  the  hoarseness  attendant  on  talking  to  her  at  din- 
ner— she  was  stone-deaf — brought  me  to  such  a  state 
of  hilarity  that  I  came  to  the  conclusion  the  only  fit- 
ting crown  to  such  a  crowded  evening  was  to  slip 
gently  out  of  the  dining-room  window  after  she  had 
retired  for  the  night,  and  repair  rapidly  to  a  night 
club.  The  matter  was  one  requiring  care,  as  I  knew 
the  betting  was  about  even  on  me  and  the  Cat's 
Home  at  Upper  Balham  for  the  principal  share  of  the 
old  lady's  boodle;  and  I  therefore  decided  on  eleven- 
thirty  as  the  earliest  possible  hour  to  start. 


86  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

It  was  just  as  I  was  tiptoeing  past  the  dining-room 
door  at  a  quarter  to  twelve  that  I  heard  a  movement 
inside,  and  the  faint  chink  of  silver  being  moved. 
The  matter  somewhat  naturally  I  regarded  as  a  per- 
sonal affront;  the  silver,  at  any  rate,  would  be  mine, 
even  if  the  Feline  Sanatorium  took  the  rest,  so  I 
faded  rapidly  up  the  stairs  again  to  obtain  a  revolver, 
which  by  the  merest  fluke  was  in  my  kit.  It  be- 
longed to  a  fellow  who  was  going  to  shoot  at  Bisley, 
but  it  came  in  very  handy  that  night.  .  .  . 

Adopting  a  bold  demeanour  I  flung  open  the  dining- 
room  door,  and  switched  on  the  light. 

"Keep  quite  still,"  I  urged  him;  "but  for  the 
Lord's  sake  don't  drop  that  plate  about.  You'll 
'dent  it." 

He  was  a  cheery-looking  fellow,  and  he  grinned  all 
t>ver  his  face. 

"Put  the  pop-gun  away,  guv'nor,"  he  remarked 
kindly.  "It's  a  fair  cop,  and  it  might  ruddy  well  go 
hoff." 

As  I  knew  it  was  unloaded  the  contingency  failed 
to  frighten  me. 

"  ' Ave  yer  sent  for  the  perlice  ?"  he  demanded. 

"No,"  I  said,  "I  have  not.  And  provided  you  be- 
have yourself  I  don't  propose  to.  Sit  down  there  at 
the  table." 

We  sat  down  facing  one  another,  and  he  produced 
a  packet  of  "gaspers." 

"For  the  love  of  Heaven  don't  smoke,"  I  cried. 
*Td  be  cut  out  of  the  will  for  a  certainty.  But  I'll 
give  you  a  bottle  of  very  fine  old  port  if  you  like." 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  87 

He  accepted  it,  and  I  breathed  again,  which  is  more 
than  the  burglar  did  after  the  first  mouthful. 

"Gaw  Lumme!  wot's  this?"  he  spluttered.  "I  thort 
you  said  port." 

I  smiled  and  felt  better.  "Sorry  you  don't  like  it," 
I  told  him,  "but  my  aunt  got  it  from  the  grocer  this 
morning  in  exchange  for  ninety-three  soup  square 
labels." 

He  looked  at  me  suspiciously.  "Wot  the  'ell  are 
you  doing  in  a  'ouse  like  this?"  he  demanded.  "The 
old  gal  don't  never  'ave  no  one  to  stay — leastways,  no 
man." 

"I  might  ask  you  the  same  question,"  I  reminded 
him,  "except  that  the  object  of  your  visit  is  a  little 
obvious.  Do  you  usually  specialise  on  the  houses  of 
lonely  old  women?" 

"Cheese  it,  guv'nor;  I've  got  to  live,  ain't  I?  And 
I  reckon  you're  only  'ere  for  wot  you  can  git  out  of  the 
old  trout,  so  there  ain't  much  difference  between  us." 

I  confess  that  the  point  of  view  was  novel,  but  as 
it  was  nearer  a  bull's-eye  than  I  altogether  liked,  I 
changed  the  conversation. 

"Is  this  your  first  effort?"  I  asked  him. 

"First!     No,  it  ain't.     I'm  listed  at  the  C.R.O.,  I 


am." 


"And  what  may  that  be?" 

"Criminal  Records  Horfice,"  he  returned  sullenly. 
"But  don't  yer  try  any  dam  soft  talk  on  wiv  me; 
for  I  ain't  taking  any.  I  don't  want  none  of  yer  re- 
pentance stunt." 

I  reassured  him  of  my  complete  inability  to  preach 


88  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

repentance  to  any  one,  and  after  a  while  he  forgot 
his  suspicions  and  we  talked.  We  talked  till  four,  did 
Pete  Jobson  and  myself,  and  between  us  we  even  fin- 
ished the  port. 

The  beginning  had  been  the  usual  thing — foul  sur- 
roundings. A  temporary  respite  for  a  few  pennies 
could  be  obtained  at  the  movies,  where  one  lives  in 
a  whirl  of  explosions  and  Red  Indians,  and  no  one 
moves  with  less  than  three  revolvers  and  a  bowie- 
knife;  but  temporary  respites  of  that  sort  are  danger- 
ous. The  high-spirited  boy  sees  the  daily  round  of 
soul-killing,  slave-driving  monotony  to  which  the  vir- 
tuous of  his  own  kind  are  driven,  and  he  rebels. 

With  a  proper  environment  and  training,  possibly 
the  result  would  be  different;  as  it  is,  the  boy  drifts 
naturally  to  the  almost  inevitable  finish.  And  in  time 
he  is  listed  at  the  C.R.O. :  he  is  a  marked  man,  with 
his  hand  against  every  man  and  every  man's  hand 
against  him. 

At  least,  that  is  how  he  feels  on  the  matter,  and 
encounters  with  well-meaning  bores,  who  entreat  him 
to  repent  and  turn  from  the  evil  of  his  ways,  do  noth- 
ing to  remove  the  impression.  One  cannot  expect 
cause  and  effect  to  be  too  clearly  outlined  in  his  mind ; 
one  cannot  expect  him  always  to  realise  that  his  pres- 
ent unenviable  position  is  entirely  his  own  fault — that 
he  started  the  ball  rolling  so  to  speak,  and  he  cannot 
complain  now  that  society  has  continued  the  game. 

"My  very  worst  frind,  from  beginnin'  to  ind, 
By  the  blood  av  a  mouse,  was  mesilf !" 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  89 

And  yet,  was  it  entirely  his  own  fault?  Are  those 
who  preach  quite  certain  that  had  they  started  in  the 
same  position,  the  result  would  not  have  been  the 
same  ?  The  question  is  a  big  one,  and  we  are  not  con- 
cerned with  it  at  present.  So  let  us  leave  generalities 
and  come  to  the  case  of  Pete  Jobson,  as  I  got  it  from 
him  that  night. 

He  was  a  husky  young  devil,  and  possessed  of  a 
nimble  brain;  and  had  he  been  given  a  fair  start  he 
might  have  done  well.  As  it  was,  however,  at  the 
age  of  twenty-one,  the  C.R.O.  had  marked  him  down, 
and  the  oft- waged  fight  began  yet  another  unequal 
contest.  After  all,  the  man  has  such  a  very  small 
chance. 

From  twenty-one  to  twenty-three  the  outside  world 
had  not  troubled  Pete.  A  little  affair  out  Ealing  way, 
a  little  blunder,  and — the  inevitable.  He  was  met  at 
the  door  of  the  prison  by  a  kindly  gentleman,  who  told 
him  to  keep  up  heart,  and  gave  him  a  tract.  And  there 
at  once  you  get  the  two  sides  of  the  case;  which  are 
both  so  easy  to  understand.  That  gentleman  meant 
well — though  it's  a  dreadful  indictment  to  fling  at  any 
one :  he  meant  well.  Honestly  and  conscientiously  he 
was  doing  what  he  thought  to  be  good  and  helpful. 
To  Pete  the  whole  incident  was  as  a  red  rag  to  a  bull. 
For  a  tiny  blunder  he  had  been  jugged  for  two  years 
— two  of  the  best  years  of  his  life;  and  rightly  or 
wrongly,  he  felt  Fate  had  treated  him  unkindly. 

So  with  great  and  unceasing  fluency  he  cursed  that 
kindly  gentleman,  and  his  tract;  he  mentioned  other 
kindly  gentlemen  and  their  tracts,  and  then  he  felt 


90  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

better.  Which,  of  course,  was  all  very  wrong,  and 
showed  an  unrepentant  spirit.  .  .  .  But,  how  very 
natural!  .  .  . 

I  gathered  that  he  had  a  certain  standard  of  his 
own — had  Pete.  If  he  relieved  a  wealthy  Hebrew 
in  the  suburbs  of  some  surplus  table  silver,  and  his 
wife  of  a  ring  or  two,  no  one  was  really  hurt  by  the 
transaction,  and  Pete  was  benefited.  If  some  one  was 
mug  enough  to  try  and  spot  the  lady  coming  up  from 
Epsom  in  the  train,  when  Pete  was  manipulating  the 
cards — well,  surely  enough  has  been  said  about  the 
three-card  trick  by  now  to  give  knowledge  to  even 
the  most  unsophisticated. 

But — one  night,  he  had  visited  a  house  in  Earl's 
Court,  and  as  he  was  leaving  with  the  very  diminutive 
amount  of  booty  he  had  been  able  to  collect,  the  light 
was  switched  on,  and  a  woman — a  middle-aged  woman 
— came  into  the  room. 

"I  am  all  alone  except  for  a  maidservant  in  the 
house/'  she  said  quietly;  "but  would  you  not  take 
that  silver  tray.  It  was  a  wedding  present  I  greatly 
value,  and  my  husband  was  killed  at  Majuba." 

Pete  looked  at  her  hard  as  she  stood  there,  and  her 
eyes  met  his  without  flinching.  "You've  pluck,"  he 
said  at  length.  "I  likes  pluck.  Why- didn't  yer  ring 
up  at  the  station?" 

"Because  I  don't  want  you  to  be  put  in  prison,  even 
if  they  caught  you."  Pete  looked  at  her  suspiciously. 
"There  are  so  many  hundreds  of  people  who  are  doing 
the  same  as  you,  and  who  live  in  large  houses ;  and  so 
many  thousands  who  might  be  but  for  some  little  freak 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  91 

of  fate,  that  I  don't  think  it's  fair.  So  I  ask  you  as 
one  person  to  another,  not  to  take  that  tray. 
That's  all." 

"Strite?"  The  training  of  a  lifetime  is  not  shed  in 
a  moment. 

"Straight,"  she  answered. 

"Then  'ere  you  are.  Taike  the  'ole  lot  back."  He 
was  gone  before  she  could  speak  again;  which  was 
Pete — his  way,  though  it  was  like  opening  an  oyster 
to  get  that  yarn  out  of  him.  .  .  . 

At  four  a.m.  we  parted  the  best  of  friends.  "Come 
dahn  to  Lower  Dock  Halley,  guv'nor,"  were  his  last 
words  to  me  as  he  faded  through  the  window.  "The 
Dancing  'All.  I'll  look  after  yer." 

And  so  one  night,  having  nothing  better  to  do,  I 
went,  albeit  with  some  trepidation,  to  the  Dancing 
'All  in  Lower  Dock  Alley.  Visions  of  mysterious  dis- 
appearances floated  through  my  mind  as  I  wandered 
through  a  network  of  unpleasant  streets ;  and  my  per- 
turbation was  not  diminished  by  the  kindly  words  of 
P.C.  34,  from  whom  I  enquired  the  way.  I  think  his 
number  was  34,  though  I  am  not  sure.  But  I  looked 
at  him  closely,  I  leaned  upon  him  mentally,  I  felt  loath 
to  leave  him — that  large  imperturbable  P.C.  34.  He 
exuded  an  atmosphere  of  safety  which,  mingled  with 
that  of  fried  fish  from  a  shop  near  by,  reminded  me 
of  home.  I  speak  metaphorically :  we  are  really  rather 
particular.  .  .  . 

"Going  to  Lower  Dock  Halley?"  said  P.C.  34. 
"Second  right,  third  left,  and  I  wouldn't." 


92  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

"Wouldn't  you?"  I  remarked  nervously.  "I've  got 
a  friend  there." 

P.C.  34  became  professional.  "  'Ave  you?"  he  said; 
and  I  fancied  my  reputation  had  suffered.  "Well, 
don't  say  I  didn't  warn  you." 

I  assured  him  I  would  be  most  careful  what  I  said, 
and  we  parted,  effusively  on  my  part,  a  trifle  coldly 
on  his.  I  felt  he  regarded  me  as  outside  the  pale,  and 
the  half-crown's  worth  of  hush  money  I  pressed  into 
his  hand  failed  to  remove  his  displeasure  altogether. 

And  so  I  came  to  the  Dancing  Hall.  It  was  a  big 
room  and  one  end  was  filled  with  small  tables.  At 
the  other  end  of  the  room  a  piano  and  a  violin  supplied 
the  music  for  the  couples  who  danced  in  the  open  space, 
and  without  going  any  farther  than  the  musicians 
themselves  the  psychologist  might  have  amused  him- 
self for  quite  a  while. 

They  were  father  and  daughter,  the  players,  and 
the  girl  played  the  piano.  She  had  no  technique,  but 
technique  is  not  required  in  an  East  End  dancing  sa- 
loon ;  she  had,  however,  the  divine  touch  of  the  artist, 
and  that  is.  It  came  from  her  father,  who  sat  beside 
her,  drawing  the  music  of  the  gods  from  his  fiddle — 
and  drunk,  hopelessly  drunk.  c 

"There  was  a  time,  sir,"  he  would  say  magnificently, 
"when  I  could  command  my  own  price.  The  Queen's 
Hall,  the  music-halls,  even  the  Albert  Hall,  I  have 
played  in  them  all;  and  now — you  perceive  the  straits 
1  am  put  to;  I  and  my  daughter — to  play  here!  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders  magnificently.  "Entirely  bad 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  93 

luck,  my  dear  sir,  which  has  ever  dogged  my  foot- 
steps." 

"Cheese  it,  father;  it's  drink,  and  yer  damn  well 
knows  it."  Wearily  the  handsome  black-eyed  girl 
would  sit  down  and  vamp  the  beginning  of  a  ragtime 
stunt.  "Come  on,  come  on;  no  yer  don't;  not  another 
till  this  is  over." 

Apologetically,  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  which  in- 
vited you  to  sympathise  with  him  in  the  buffeting  of 
life,  a  great  artist  would  sit  down  and  hack  out  some 
popular  rag:  hack  it  out  from  a  cheap  violin,  with 
hands  which  had  once  held  a  Strad;  hack  it  out  with 
lack-lustre  eyes — eyes  which  had  once  glowed  with 
the  fires  of  genius.  But  sometimes,  if  you  were  very 
lucky,  he  would  forget  his  surroundings,  he  would  for- 
get everything  save  the  gift  which  is  God-given,  and 
gradually  a  silence  would  settle  on  the  room.  Lost  to 
everything  save  the  glory  of  his  art,  he  would  play — 
that  man  who  was.  The  greasy  waiters  would  move 
on  tiptoe,  and  men  would  stare  motionless  at  sights 
which  came  to  them  out  of  the  past,  and  women  would 
let  the  tears  pour  unchecked  from  their  eyes.  For 
he  played  of  the  "Might  have  been" ;  and  the  spirit  of 
God  comes  very  near  to  all  of  us  then — often  too  near 
for  our  peace  of  mind.  But  on  those  nights  he  would 
go  home  drunker  than  ever.  .  .  . 

I  met  Pete,  that  first  night,  and  he  gave  me  the  in- 
troductions I  wanted.  From  then  on  I  was  privileged : 
I  was  vouched  for.  And  so  it  came  about  that  often, 
when  the  conventional  prosiness  of  London  West  bored 
one  to  extinction,  the  life  of  London  East  would  stretch 


94  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

forth  a  tempting  hand.  An  old  dark  suit,  a  flannel 
collar,  and  the  atmosphere  of  "nothing  matters"! 
Lord !  but  it  came  back  to  me  that  night  as  I  reported 
in  triplicate  on  Acacia  Avenue.  ... 

It  was  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven  that  Pete  took 
unto  himself  a  wife;  which,  being  interpreted,  meaneth 
that  he  took  unto  himself  a  girl  to  live  with  per- 
manently. 

I  remember  the  night  he  first  met  her — Kate,  the 
girl  I  asked  him  about.  The  old  musician  had  given 
us  one  of  his  rare  outbursts,  and  the  Beauty  of  the 
Ages  was  in  the  room.  It  just  had  us  by  the  throat 
that  thing  he  played,  and  Kate  was  at  the  table  next 
to  mine.  She  seemed  utterly  unconscious  of  any  one 
as,  with  her  lips  parted  and  two  great  tears  hanging 
on  her  eyelashes,  she  sat  forward  with  her  chin  cupped 
in  her  hands.  After  a  while  she  stirred  restlessly,  and 
her  eyes  came  round  to  mine.  The  music  was  dying 
gently  away,  and  her  breast  was  rising  and  falling 
convulsively.  .  .  . 

"Gawd !  but  it  makes  yer  see  things,"  she  whispered ; 
"things  as  never  was,  things  as  never  will  be  for  us." 

It  was  then  I  saw  Pete,  standing  against  the  wall 
close  by.  He  was  looking  at  her,  and  in  Lower  Dock 
Alley  one  does  not  disguise  one's  feelings :  camouflage 
is  unknown.  The  girl  saw  him  too,  but  for  a  moment 
the  look  blazing  in  Pete's  face  made  no  impression  on 
her.  Back  with  the  might  have  beens  she  was  still 
unconscious  of  his  existence,  and  only  when  he  sat 
down  opposite  her  did  she  suddenly  realise  he  was 
speaking  to  her. 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  95 

"Dance  with  you?"  she  said  slowly.  "Ain't  you 
Pete  Jobson?" 

"  'Ow  did  yer  know  ?"  he  demanded.  "I  ain't  seen 
yer  'ere  before." 

"Wot's  yer  line?"  she  said  after  a  moment,  ignor- 
ing his  question. 

"Wot  the  bloody  'ell  'as  that  to  do  with  you?"  His 
jaw  stuck  out,  and  his  clenched  fist  met  the  table  with 
a  bang. 

The  girl  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed,  show- 
ing two  rows  of  strong  white  teeth.  "I  likes  yer 
when  you're  angry."  She  looked  at  him  appraisingly. 
"I'll  dance  with  yer  once — Pete."  The  might  have 
been  had  gone;  life  as  it  is  had  returned. 

It  would  not  have  passed  muster  in  some  drawing- 
rooms — that  dance;  in  others,  feeble  imitations  of 
it  may  be  seen  nightly.  In  Lower  Dock  Alley  there 
are  no  dress  shirts  to  crumple  or  frocks  to  spoil,  and 
you  dance  as  the  spirit  moves  you — and  the  girl. 
A  dance  means  something  there :  it  ceases  to  be  a 
polite  form  of  post-prandial  exercise — it  becomes  an 
expression  of  life. 

At  the  end  of  that  dance  she  looked  at  Pete's  face, 
she  looked  at  his  eyes,  and  once  again  did  she  laugh 
quite  softly. 

"Good-night,  Pete  Jobson,"  she  said,  and  her 
voice  was  mocking.  "Did  yer  like  it?" 

"Gawd!    my    gal,"    he    muttered    hoarsely,    "but 
you  can  dance."    And  as  he  spoke  she  was  gone. 
He  caught  her  at  the  door,  and  followed  her  out 


96  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

into  the  darkness.  Then  he  kissed  her.  She  did  not 
struggle,  but  lay  in  his  arms — lifeless,  inert. 

"Wot's  the  matter  with  yer?"  he  growled  sullenly, 
as  he  let  her  go. 

"This."  She  stood  in  front  of  him,  and  he  could 
see  her  eyes  gleaming  by  the  light  of  the  street  lamp. 
"The  man  wot  kisses  me  like  that  I've  got  ter  love; 

and  I  'ates  you.     Taike  that,  you "     Pete  felt  a 

stinging  blow  on  the  side  of  his  head,  and  the  next 
moment  he  was  alone.  For  a  while  he  stood  rubbing 
his  ear  tentatively,  and  then  with  a  peculiar  look  on 
his  face  he  went  inside  again. 

"See  that  girl  I  was  dancing  wiv  just  now?"  he 
asked  a  pal.  "Oo  is  she?" 

"Old  man  Shearman's  daughter,"  answered  the 
other.  "Lives  down  Box  Street.  But  yer  won't  get 
much  change  out  of  'er,  Pete." 

"  'Ow  the  'ell  do  you  know  ?"  demanded  Jobson 
fiercely.  "  'Ave  you  been  try  in'  any  monkey  tricks  with 
'eryerself?" 

The  other  crook  recoiled  a  pace.  "Orl  rite,  orl 
rite,  don't  get  so  ruddy  'uffy.  I  don't  know  nothing 
abaht  the  girl  'cept  wot  I've  'card." 

"Then  you  keep  it  at  that,  Joss  Straker,  or  you  an' 
me'll  be  'aving  words.  An'  the  man  I  catch  monkey- 
ing with  'er — Gawd  'elp  'im." 

Thus  did  Pete  enter  the  lists  of  the  love  makers.  To 
a  less  sophisticated  soul,  the  beginning  might  have  left 
something  to  be  desired,  but  Pete  had  made  love  be- 
fore, and  he  argued  that  if  in  one  meeting  he  could 
work  the  lady  up  sufficiently  to  say  she  hated  him, 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  97 

there  was  hope.  At  least,  that  is  how  he  put  it  to  me ; 
and  now  Kate  has  two  little  Petes,  so  it  is  to  be  as- 
sumed he  was  right.  .  .  . 

This  is  not  a  story,  and  there  is  no  plot.  It  is  just 
a  sketchy  slice  from  a  man's  life,  which  may  show  that 
love  of  adventure  and  not  inherent  viciousness  is  at 
the  bottom  of  the  minds  of  many  of  our  so-called  crim- 
inals. Leaving  aside  the  blackmailers,  and  one  or  two 
other  branches  of  the  fraternity  of  rogues,  it  is  my  con- 
tention that  they  are  the  victims  of  a  system  over  which 
they  have  no  control.  And  the  viciousness  of  the  sys- 
tem is  frequently  aggravated  by  those  who,  with  the 
best  intentions  in  the  world,  try  to  make  it  better. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  I  have  wondered  whether  they  are 
actuated  by  the  best  intentions ;  or  whether  a  peculiar 
form  of  selfishness  and  self-satisfaction  is  not  the  driv- 
ing force. 

On  one  occasion,  I  remember,  I  went  down  to  see 
Kate.  She  asked  me  to  come ;  at  least,  I  ultimately  de- 
ciphered her  letter  to  mean  something  of  the  sort. 
Pete  was  undergoing  a  temporary  retreat  at  His  Ma- 
jesty's expense,  and  things  were  a  bit  strained  in  the 
house.  I  arrived  with  some  food  in  one  pocket  and  a 
bottle  of  gin  in  the  other,  which,  of  course,  was  hope- 
lessly reprehensible. 

In  the  middle  of  our  conversation,  which  turned 
largely  on  ways  and  means  and  was  considerably 
helped  by  the  gin,  a  lady  arrived — a  district  visitor — 
and  I  dodged  into  the  scullery.  It  was  a  most  improv- 
ing visit,  I  have  no  doubt;  and  it  is  possible  that  lady 


98  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

went  to  bed  that  night  with  the  virtuous  glow  of  self- 
righteousness  at  fever  heat.  But  as  for  Kate  .  .  . 
well,  it's  the  Kates  who  are  supposed  to  benefit.  .  .  . 

She  was  a  fine  example — that  district  visitor — of 
what  not  to  be.  In  the  first  place  she  was  utterly  igno- 
rant of  the  practical  conditions  of  life  amongst  those 
she  visited;  in  the  second  place  she  sniffed — the  self- 
satisfied  sniff;  in  the  third,  she  used  the  phrase,  "My 
good  girl."  And  the  combination  put  the  brass  hat  on. 
To  be  called  a  good  girl  is  much  the  same  as  being 
alluded  to  as  "a  person."  And  people  hate  being 
called  persons.  To  be  informed  that  a  young  person 
has  come  and  wishes  to  see  one,  is  almost  as  in- 
furiating as  to  be  told  by  a  frock-coated  excrescence 
in  a  millinery  emporium  that  "this  young  lady  will 
attend  to"  one's  wants.  One  can't  ask  a  "young  lady" 
for  a  bone  collar  stud ;  it's  positively  indecent.  Heav- 
ens above!  what's  wrong  with  the  words  "man"  and 
"woman"? 

The  district  visitor  spotted  the  gin  just  as  she  was 
going,  and  wanted  to  remove  it.  It  was  that  which 
brought  me  from  my  seat  in  the  scullery  sink,  and 
tied  things  up  still  more. 

"It's  my  gin" — I  removed  the  bottle  from  her 
hand — "entirely  mine.  If  you  want  some  yourself 
there  is  unlimited  opportunity  for  you  to  obtain  some, 
at  comparatively  small  cost.  Good  morning,  my  good 
woman,  good  morning." 

It  struck  me  there  was  nothing  like  assuming  the 
offensive  spirit,  and  carrying  the  war  into  the  enemy's 
camp.  It  would  have  been  feeble  for  her  to  call  me 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  99 

her  good  man  after  that;  so  it  was  a  case  of  "thumbs 
up,"  as  far  as  we  were  concened.  In  fact,  she  was 
routed  in  disorder. 

But  if s  all  a  long  time  ago,  that  life — in  the  pre- 
war dispensation.  Things  have  changed  now;  let 
us  pray  the  Powers  of  Common  Sense  that  they  will 
never  revert.  I  like  to  think  that  perhaps  I  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  concrete  fact  of  Pete  in  khaki — 
the  mud  plucker  with  the  Military  Medal  hidden  by 
the  congealing  filth. 

It  was  the  last  time  I  saw  them — just  after  the 
war  began — that  I  quarrelled  with  Kate,  and  it  was 
over  that  very  thing — Pete  in  khaki — that  the  quarrel 
occurred. 

It  may  have  been  the  charm  of  my  presence,  it 
.may  have  been  the  gin — and  any  way  it  is  as  well 
not  to  inquire  too  closely  into  matters  of  cause  and 
effect — but  the  fact  remains  that  these  two  lawless 
derelicts  trusted  me.  When  trouble  was  afoot  I  gen- 
erally got  to  hear  of  it  somehow,  and  we  would  fore- 
gather in  the  Dancing  Hall  of  Lower  Dock  Alley. 

She  came  straight  to  the  point,  did  Kate,  when  I 
saw  her.  Pete  had  recently  emerged  from — however, 
he  had  just  emerged — and  was  looking  remarkably 
sheepish. 

"This  blarsted  fool,"  announced  his  loving  wife, 
before  even  the  beer  arrived,  "wants  to  'list." 

"Good  for  you,  Pete,"  I  said,  and  he  grinned  feebly. 

Then  Kate  spoke.  She  was  not  polite,  and  soon 
quite  a  crowd  had  gathered,  and  helped  on  the  combat 
.with  suggestions. 


loo  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

"Look  here,  Kate/'  I  said,  when  she  stopped  for 
breath,  "have  some  beer.'* 

"I  don't  want  none  of  yer beer,"  she  stormed, 

putting  away  a  good  half  pint.  "Wot  I  wants  to 
know  is  why  the  'ell  'e  should  go  and  fight  for 

them ,  wot's  done  nothing  but  put  him  in  clink? 

Where  the  'ell  do  I  come  in?" 

"Look  here,  Kate,"  I  said  quietly,  "you  just  listen 
to  me  for  a  bit." 

It  wouldn't  have  passed  muster  on  a  public  plat- 
form, the  stuff  I  ladled  out  to  them.  A  critical  audi- 
ence would  have  torn  it  to  shreds,  especially  an  au- 
dience whose  God  was  money.  But  one  thing  rose 
clear,  one  thing  was  certain :  that  the  love  of  country 
— that  nameless  love  which  is  the  greatest  driving 
force  which  the  world  has  ever  known — was  not  ab- 
sent from  the  so-called  criminal  classes.  Eighty  per 
cent,  of  my  audience  that  night  had  done  time ;  eighty 
per  cent,  were  at  war  with  law  and  order;  and  yet, 
Country — the  Old  Country — held  them.  Can  the 
same  be  said  of  many  of  their  more  sanctimonious 
brethren?  There  was  not  a  man  there,  at  any  rate, 
who  would  have  pleaded  conscience  to  escape  his 
obligations,  and  at  the  same  time  would  have  been 
content  to  reap  the  benefits  of  other  men's  obli- 
gations. There  was  not  a  man  there,  at  any 
rate,  who  would  have  bolted  to  the  funk-hole  of  in- 
dispensability  in  a  trade  of  which  he  was  completely 
ignorant. 

They  had  no  consciences;  they  knew  they  were 
not  indispensable ;  they  knew  they  could  do  one  thing 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  TOI 

— fight! — and  they've  done  it,  damned  well.  They 
may  be  an  unholy  crowd,  they  may  not  conform  to 
the  strict  paths  of  morality;  but  they  have  fought. 
They  have  sat  and  suffered  in  the  Land  of  filth  and 
Death  for  the  benefit  of  many  who  regard  them  as 
pariahs  and  social  lepers.  But  then,  the  "unco  guid" 
are  a  very  poisonous  and  nauseating  crowd.  The  pity 
is  that  their  voice  is  so  big.  .  .  . 

They  have  found — these  pariahs  of  ours — that 
authority  need  not,  of  necessity,  be  despotism. 
They  have  found  that  life  can  be  lived  without  cease- 
less war  between  them  and  their  rulers;  they  have 
learned  the  Law  of  Give  and  Take — the  great  law 
which  governs  Humanity.  For  the  first  time  they 
have  left  their  filthy  slums — their  disgusting  tene- 
ments— where,  huddled  together  in  revolting  con- 
ditions, they  were  dragging  out  their  drab  and  dreary 
lives. 

"Oh.  it  isn't  cheerful  to  see  a  man,  the  marvellous  work 

of  God, 
Crushed  in  the  mutilation  mill,  crushed  to  a  smeary  clod!" 

So  sings  a  soldier  poet;  and  Heaven  knows  he  is. 
right.  But  it  is  worse — far  worse — to  think  of  those 
marvellous  works  of  God — thousands  of  them;  mil- 
lions of  them — crushed  in  the  mutilation  mill  of  dis- 
ease and  foulness;  struggling,  snarling,  cursing,  for 
a  wretched  pittance  with  which  to  buy  forgetfulness 
for  a  short  hour.  Denied  a  bit  of  God's  blue  sky; 
denied  the  sight  of  God's  green  trees ;  sinking,  slither- 
ing, writhing  in  the  foetid  pool  of  material  degrada- 


.102  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

tion — they  existed  for  a  space  and  then  they 
died.  .  .  .  And  district  visitors  came  and  gave  them 
tracts.  .  .  . 

They  wanted  no  tracts  for  their  souls;  first  of  all 
they  wanted  clean,  healthy  surroundings  for  their 
bodies.  It  was  up  to  us  their  leaders  to  see  that 
they  got  them.  And  we  failed.  .  .  . 

They  have  died — by  the  thousands — in  France ;  and 
in  dying  surely  they  have  found  life.  Let  us  look  to 
it  that  those  who  return  may  also  find  the  life  they 
are  entitled  to,  at  home  here.  They  have  felt  the 
Human  Touch  over  the  water — that  touch  which 
draws  men  very  close  together;  that  touch  which 
smooths  away  the  roughnesses,  and  helps  to  make  the 
path  so  easy.  Let  us  keep  that  Human  Touch  alive 
when  we  write  Finis  on  the  war. 


VIII 

And  now — for  I  have  wandered  far  afield — let  us 
return  to  Shorty  Bill.  He  was  living  amongst  the 
rural  delights  of  Passchendaele,  when  the  catastrophe 
occurred.  For  weeks  there  had  been  peace  and 
quiet;  for  weeks  Shorty  had  wandered  at  odd  times 
out  into  the  darkness  and  desolation  of  No  Man's 
Land,  and,  in  due  course,  had  returned.  After  some 
of  these  perigrinations  there  appeared  a  new  nick 
on  the  handle  of  his  own  peculiar  implement;  more 
often  the  morning  would  find  him  sorrowfully  shaking 
his  head. 

"Blank  again,   son."     Thus  would  he  greet  en- 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  103 

quiries.  "Damned  if  I  know  where  the  perishers  have 
gone  to." 

And  then  one  morning  peace  ceased  and  throughout 
the  salient  there  rained  down  a  storm  of  shells  big 
and  small — gas  and  otherwise.  It  became  like  old 
times  again,  and  every  one  began  to  sit  up  and  take 
notice.  Was  this  the  much-talked-of  German  offen- 
sive, or  was  it  merely  the  effect  of  the  coming  spring 
— an  ebullition  of  joy,  a  friendly  greeting.  Zonne- 
beeke  was  plastered,  Polygon  Wood  got  back  to  its 
old  form :  the  poor  old  Cloth  Hall  gathered  in  a  few 
more  for  luck,  while  even  Poperinghe  took  upon  itself 
once  again  past  glories  in  the  shell  line. 

And  then  the  news  began  to  come  through;  the 
news  which  took  men  different  ways.  Some  grew 
thoughtful — some  cursed;  some  laughed  and  said 
it  was  just  a  flash  in  the  pan,  while  others  remarked 
that  the  flash  seemed  more  in  the  nature  of  a  young 
explosion.  To  each  and  every  one  according  to  the 
manner  of  the  brute,  the  German  break-through  at 
St.  Quentin,  came  differently.  Not  a  man  but  had 
fought  over  the  ground;  not  a  man  but  knew  the 
Somme  battlefield,  and  the  evacuated  area,  or  some 
little  bit  of  it  as  well  as  he  knew  his  own  back  garden. 
And  it  was  so  deuced  hard  to  understand — that  was 
the  devil  of  it.  That  it  would  all  come  right,  no 
one — save  the  faint  heart — doubted;  but  what  had 
happened;  why  had  it  occurred? 

"Coming  on  in  masses,  son,"  remarked  Shorty  one 
night  to  Mayhew,  "coming  on  in  masses,  and  we  not 
there  to  kill  them.  Did  you  see  that  officer  who 


104  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

said  he'd  fired  three  hundred  rounds  and  killed  three 
hundred  Bodies?"  Shorty  spat  reflectively.  "Not 
that  I  call  that  amusing  gun  work  myself :  it's  merely 
a  duty — though  a  damned  pleasant  duty."  He  re- 
lapsed into  silence,  running  his  thumb-nail  up  and 
down  the  notches  on  the  stock  of  his  rifle,  and  frown- 
ing thoughtfully. 

"What  I  can't  get  at  is  why  they've  come  back 
so  far."  Mayhew  shifted  his  position  in  the  corner 
of  the  dugout,  and  stared  out  of  the  door.  "It's  bad, 
Shorty,  rotten  bad.  If  one  man  can  kill  three  hundred 
Boches.  .  .  ."  He  left  the  sentence  unfinished,  and 
for  a  while  there  was  silence. 

"We  wasn't  there,  mate;  so  we  oughtn't  to  say 
nothing."  Shorty  spoke  with  slow  deliberation.  "It 
may  be  that  when  they've  spent  'emselves,  that  French 
bloke  will  clip  'em  one  in  the  wind  from  the  south, 
and  cut  'em  off;  then  again  it  may  not." 

"You  must  have  written  as  military  correspondent 
for  the  Press,  Shorty,"  murmured  Mayhew  with  mild 
sarcasm. 

"But  whether  he  does  or  whether  he  doesn't," 
Shorty  ignored  the  interruption,  "I'll  bet  one  thing, 
I'd  even  stake  this  on  it."  With  due  solemnity  he 
lifted  the  weapon.  "I  don't  give  a  dam  for  the  Boche 
numbers,  though  that  may  have  had  something  to  do 
with  it;  and  cut  the  cackle  about  morning  mists  and 
such  like.  The  root  of  the  trouble  was  that  the  boys 
have  forgotten  their  best  friend,  and  how  to  use 
him."  He  held  his  rifle  in  front  of  him  and  looked 
at  it  lovingly.  "That,  and  a  new  situation — now 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  105 

we've  no  trenches.  Just  man  to  man."  His  eyes 
glistened,  and  Kis  great  gnarled  fist  shook  slightly  at 
the  picture  in  his  mind. 

"And  rumour,  Shorty,"  Mayhew  broke  in  quietly. 
"Boche  agents  telling  men  they  were  up  in  the 
air;  telling  parties  to  retire.  Wind  vertical  every- 
where; wind  blowing  like  a  hurricane.  A  machine 
gun  poked  through,  and  letting  drive  into  somebody's 
back." 

"Who  let  it  through?"  demanded  his  companion 
fiercely.  "After  all  these  years — after  all  these 
years."  He  seemed  to  be  following  a  train  of  thought 
of  his  own,  and  for  a  long  while  he  stared  silently 
at  the  brazier  in  the  corner.  "Maybe  we'll  be  down 
there  soon  ourselves,  son."  The  advent  of  the  mail 
brought  him  out  of  his  reserve.  Since  his  one  letter 
from  Rose  he  had  never  been  known  to  get  another, 
but  he  always  became  hopeful  when  the  postman 
arrived.  As  usual  he  drew  blank  and  returned  to 
the  contemplation  of  the  glowing  charcoal.  And  it 
was  only  half  consciously  that  Mayhew — engrossed  in 
a  letter  from  his  wife — heard  his  murmured  words. 
"Comin'  back!  Retreatin'!  God!  but  it's  a  dam 
tough  billet  to  chew !" 


Now  in  the  ordinary  course  of  events,  when  a 
Division  pulls  out  of  the  line  after  a  prolonged  spell 
of  trench  work  it  rests.  It  goes  to  a  country  where 
all  is  peace,  and  there  it  drills  and  trains,  and  gener- 
ally refits  itself  for  further  adventures  in  the  line. 


106  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

By  day  tHe  Divisional  Band  will  play  in  sleepy  village 
market-places;  in  the  evenings  the  Divisional  Concert 
party  will  give  a  show  in  a  crowded  barn.  To  be 
exact  Shorty's  battalion  had  been  out  two  days  when 
the  bomb  shell  arrived.  The  men  had  all  had  a  bath ; 
the  Pimples  had  given  their  celebrated  performance, 
amidst  vast  applause,  in  an  odoriferous  barn;  a  per- 
formance at  which  the  General  had  arrived  unex- 
pectedly and  informally  to  every  one's  delight — being 
that  manner  of  man;  and  had  left  with  his  A.D.C. 
through  a  hole  in  the  wall  in  order  not  to  disturb 
things.  As  yet  the  change  which  had  come  had  not 
made  itself  felt;  the  Battalion  was  resting — as  usual, 
it  would  rest. 

But  at  the  moment  the  Hun — though  undoubtedly 
paying  the  piper — was  also  undoubtedly  calling  the 
tune.  And  the  Hun  decided  otherwise.  Hence  the 
bomb  shell. 

4'The  Battalion  will  be  ready  to  move  by  tactical 
train  at  half-an-hour's  notice."  The  Adjutant  looked 
up  from  the  pink  slip  of  paper  in  his  hand,  and 
beamed  gently  on  the  mess.  "There  you  are,  boys; 
isn't  it  nice?  James — I'm  surprised  at  you."  He 
regarded  the  Signal  officer  coldly.  "For  what  other 
reason  do  you  draw  ten  shillings  a  day — one  hundred 
and  eighty  pounds  a  year — plus  field  allowance,  but 
to  move  by  tactical  train  at  half-an-hour's  notice? 
For  Heaven's  sake  remember  those  gallant  fellows  at 
home,  who  have  been  stirred  to  a  patriotic  frenzy  by 
the  onslaught  of  the  hated  Hun,  and  actually  have 
to  pay  five  bob  in  the  pound  income  tax." 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  107 

A  recently  arrived  copy  of  the  Tatler  at  that 
moment  struck  him  forcibly  in  the  head,  and  silence 
resigned,  broken  only  by  occasional  expletives  indica- 
tive, doubtless,  of  intense  joy. 

"I'll  bet  that  means  we  move  to-night.' '  The 
doctor  blew  forcibly  through  his  pipe  without  success. 
"And  I  had  arranged  to  dine  with  the  Ambulance. 
Mac  has  some  pre-war  whiskey.  Damn!"  And  once 
again  silence  reigned,  while  people  digested  this  great 
thought. 

An  orderly  came  into  the  room  and  handed  an 
envelope  to  the  Adjutant.  Six  pairs  of  eyes  watched 
him  anxiously  as  he  read  the  message;  six  hol- 
low groans  announced  that  his  face  was  not  of  the 
type  which  makes  poker  a  paying  game  for  its 
owner. 

"We  move  at  23.40,"  he  remarked  tersely,  "or  in 
civilised  lingo — midnight  less  twenty  minutes." 

"Which  means  we  may  get  away  by  three — 
with  luck."  The  Assistant  Adjutant  spoke  from 
bitter  experience.  "Is  it  end  loading  or  side  load- 
ing?" 

"Transport  except  cookers  and  water-carts  by  road," 
answered  the  other.  "My  dear  man,  we' re, going  into 
the  battle.  Could  you  ask  for  anything  better?  The 
Amalgamated  Society  of  Slushton  oyster  catchers 
have  already  told  you  officially  that  they  are  lost  in 
admiration  of  your  prowess,  and  are  with  you  in 
spirit,  if  not  in  fact.  Doesn't  that  help?" 

"Talking  of  spirits,"  murmured  the  doctor,  "re- 
minds me."  He  rose  and  opened  the  door.  "Simp- 


io8  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

son,"  his  voice  could  be  heard  outside,  "Simpson — 
my  flask.     See  that  it  is  filled.  .  .  ." 
Doctors  are  base  materialists. 


Every  night,  somewhere  in  France,  a  regiment 
moves  by  tactical  train.  It  ;s  as  sure  a  thing  as 
that  every  moment  some  one  is  born  into  the  world, 
and  some  one  departs  out  of  it.  But  no  amount  of 
custom  can  ever  make  the  performance  anything 
but  utterly  vile.  At  twenty-forty  that  night  there 
passed  through  the  one  street  of  the  little  village 
where  the  entraining  was  to  take  place,  the  first 
consignment  of  the  victims.  At  its  head  rode  the 
transport  officer,  and  the  consignment  itself  consisted 
of  that  portion  of  the  battalion  transport  which  was 
to  go  by  rail.  In  the  station  yard  a  seething  mass 
of  mules  and  wagons  belonging  to  other  units  of  the 
Division,  fowled  one  another  with  unceasing  regu- 
larity. Occasionally  one  would  detach  itself,  and  ram 
the  office  of  the  R.T.O.,  a  wooden  and  unstable  struc- 
ture :  occasionally  a  bellow  of  pain  from  the  centre  of 
the  cortege  would  proclaim  that  a  cooker  had  passed 
over  the  foot  of  one  of  the  loading  party.  And 
through  it  all,  that  member  of  the  "Q"  staff  respon- 
sible for  this  dreadful  thing,  cursed  fluently  and  as 
to  the  manner  born.  For  the  whole  night  it  would 
be  his  lot  to  see  that  ceaseless  stream  sort  itself  out, 
pass  out  of  the  darkness  into  the  garish  light  of  the 
acetylene  flares,  and  be  seized  bit  by  bit  for  the  load- 
ing party  to  do  its  worst.  At  crucial  moments  the 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  109 

flares  would  go  out,  and  a  heavy  crash  would  denote 
that  a  cooker  was  jibbing,  undeterred  by  entreaties 
from  its  attendants;  at  other  and  still  more  crucial 
moments  some  humourist  in  another  part  of  the 
country  would  loose  off  a  magazine  of  ammunition  at 
a  noise  in  the  sky — reputed  to  be  a  Boche  aeroplane 
— which  left  the  noise  unmoved  but  descended  like 
a  hailstorm  on  the  merry  gathering  at  the  station. 
And  through  it  all  ran  the  ceaseless  undercurrent  of 
rumour,  as  officers  crowded  up,  paused  for  a  moment 
in  the  entrance  outside  the  ticket  office  of  that  once 
sleepy  country  station,  and  then  passed  on  into  the 
night  to  look  for  their  own  particular  train. 

Stand  by  the  door  for  a  minute  or  two  in  the  dark- 
ness and  listen  to  the  unknown  voices  close  by;  hear 
the  snatches  of  conversation  as  little  groups  form  and 
reform;  detach  yourself  for  a  moment  from  the  bustle 
and  noise,  the  grunting  trucks,  the  wheels  of  the 
transport  bumping  over  the  cobbles ; — and  view  it  not 
as  a  part  of  war,  but  as  another  of  the  idiotic  per* 
formances  in  which  we  indulge  these  days.  Then 
you'll  get  the  humour — and  since  it's  at  least  three 
hours  before  your  train  goes,  it's  better  to  laugh 
quietly  and  peacefully  in  a  dark  corner,  than  to  run 
round  in  small  circles  outside  pretending  to  help  and 
getting  knocked  down  by  other  people's  transport. 
After  all,  in  the  fullness  of  time  everything  will  doubt- 
less happen  somehow;  and  is  there  not  always  the 
harassed  performer  from  "Q"  who  will  be  hanged  if 
it  doesn't. 


no  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

"I  tell  you  we've  got  back  the  Messines  Ridge— 
the  A.S.C.  sergeant-major's  batman  got  it  off  the  ice 
from  one  of  the  cooks  at  Div.  Headquarters." 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,  our  orderly-room  clerk.  .  .  ." 
Exeunt  arguing. 

"Do  what  you  like  with  it,  burn  it,  bury  it — but 
don't  worry  me.  If  you  can  get  the  dam  thing  out 
of  the  ditch,  and  it  hasn't  broken  both  axles,  and 
you  can  get  it  loaded  on  to  the  train — it  can  go. 
I  can't  help  it  if  the  lorry  driver  was  tight;  he  says 
the  merchant  on  your  mules  tried  to  passage  over  the 
bonnet."  Exit  aggrieved  one  morosely.  "The  first 
train  may  go  in  an  hour.  It  will  then  be  four  hours 
late.  If  your  blanket  lorry  is  bogged  four  miles  away 
the  situation  is  not  without  its  gloomy  side.  Have 
I  got  any  men  to  help  you?  Great  Heavens!  look 
outside.  I've  fifty — all  of  them  asleep  or  trampled 
to  death,  and  there's  four  miles  of  transport  still  on 
the  road.  My  God!  what  a  life!"  The  represen- 
tative of  Q  falls  on  the  neck  of  the  R.T.O.  and  bursts 
into  choking  sobs. 

"Did  you  ever  meet  her?  Nice  little  thing — snub 
nose,  and  freckles  on  her  neck?" 

"You  don't  mean  the  girl  Ginger  took  to  Murray's, 
do  you?" 

"That's  the  one.  My  dear  old  thing,  you  can  take 
it  from  me,  that  that  girl  ..."  A  series  of  heavy 
crashes  outside,  as  an  engine  backs  with  extreme 
velocity  on  to  several  trucks  and  proceeds  to  chase 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  in 

them  down  the  line,  drowns  the  remainder  of  this 
promising  tit-bit. 

And  so  the  great  game  jogs  on;  the  moving  of  the 
pawns  to  their  appointed  place,  where  Death  the  in- 
satiable Master  of  War  is  waiting,  is  not  without  its 
lighter  side.  To-morrow  who  knows  ?  Even  to-night,, 
in  the  train  itself,  the  finish  may  come  for  some  of 
that  slowly-moving  crowd  outside.  But  just  at  the 
moment — there  is  humour,  there  is  life,  there  is  some- 
thing of  the  right  sort  inside  the  water-bottle.  To- 
morrow— who  cares?  Who  dares  to  care?  .  .  . 

Slowly  the  long  train  pulled  out  of  the  station. 
The  closed  trucks  with  their  well-known  markings 
"Chevaux  8.  Hommes  40"  each  contained  eight 
horses  more  or  less,  and  forty  men  generally  more 
than  less.  One  real  railway  carriage  labelled  as  first- 
class  by  some  deep  humourist  creaked  protestingly 
along  in  the  centre  of  the  train  containing  the  officers 
in  that  acute  condition  of  discomfort  which  is  the 
peculiar  property  of  a  carriage  designed  to  hold  three 
a  side  and  compelled  to  hold  five.  An  attack  of  cramp 
on  the  part  of  the  Assistant  Adjutant  spread  further 
gloom  and  despondency  in  his  compartment,  which 
was  not  lessened  by  the  sudden  descent  of  the  Medical 
Officer's  equipment  complete  with  water  bottle — less 
cork — on  the  C.O.'s  head.  At  intervals  the  train 
stopped,  and  an  unpleasant  soldier  inserted  his  head 
and  a  draught,  with  demands  to  see  bundles  of  papers 
presented  to  the  Adjutant  prior  to  departure  by  the 


H2  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

R.T.O.  Without  these  official  recognitions  of  the 
train's  existence  a  catastrophe  would  inevitably  occur. 
They  contain  in  triplicate  the  train's  destination,  and 
it  would  be  a  dreadful  thing  to  go  to  the  wrong  battle. 

In  front  huddled  together  in  the  closed  wagons  the 
men  dozed  fitfully;  and  the  long  line  of  open  trucks 
with  wagons  and  cookers  lashed  down,  completed  the 
train.  Through  the  beginning  of  the  grey,  misty 
dawn,  it  grunted  and  jolted  on  its  way :  through  great 
heaps  of  slag,  through  the  brown,  deserted  fields — 
going  into  the  unknown — going  to  the  to-morrow. 
Shorty  Bill  shook  himself  and  pulled  his  blanket  closer 
round  him. 

"Awake,  son."  He  looked  at  a  man  sitting  hunched 
beside  him,  and  proceeded  to  fill  his  pipe.  "I  reckons 
we've  for  it  pretty  soon  now.  I'll  be  getting  to  my 
three  figures." 

The  man  raised  his  head,  and  in  the  dim  light 
Shorty  saw  him  grin.  He  saw  the  white  flash  of  his 
teeth,  the  white  blur  of  his  face,  and  then  he  saw  it 
change.  What  was  white  became  red  and  dreadful; 
a  great  stream  of  something  seemed  to  cover  the 
white  flesh  with  a  mask.  It  writhed  convulsively  and 
then  sogged  forward  lolling  from  side  to  side.  .  .  . 
And  even  as  he  gazed  at  this  sudden  nightmare,  with  a 
roar  something  passed  overhead,  drowning  the  rumble 
of  the  train.  A  crackling,  spitting  noise  sounded  for 
a  moment,  and  then  died  away  again;  only  the  train 
jolting  on  its  way  broke  the  silence, 

"Gawd! — son — what  the  hell  .  .  .?"  Shorty  leaned 
forward  and  touched  the  lolling  figure,  and  his  hand 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  113 

when  he  took  it  away  was  wet.     The  man  was  dead. 

And  now  from  all  along  the  train,  that  same  crack- 
ling, spitting  noise  could  be  heard.  Men  rubbing  the 
sleep  from  their  eyes,  were  sitting  up  and  asking  one 
another  foolishly — with  the  dazed  foolishness  of  men 
just  awakened — what  was  happening.  The  sliding 
doors  of  trucks  were  wrenched  open;  groups  of  men 
clustered  to  the  openings  and  peered  out  into  the  white 
ground  mist  through  which  the  faint  blue  of  the  sky 
could  just  be  seen.  Then  it  came  again. 

Faintly  at  first,  then  growing  rapidly  in  volume, 
they  heard  the  droning  roar.  It  seemed  to  envelop 
them  and  the  vicious  crackle  of  the  Lewis  guns 
sounded  puny  in  comparison.  It  passed  over  their 
heads;  they  could  see  the  spread  of  its  wings — could 
see  the  silhouette  of  the  German  behind  his  gun;  and 
then  once  again  it  had  gone — this  time  for  good.  .  .  . 

Thus  is  it  in  the  Great  Game.  One  never  knows; 
from  minute  to  minute  one  never  knows.  Two  hours 
later  a  certain  German  airman,  having  eaten  a  com- 
fortable breakfast,  and  reported  his  attack  on  the 
troop  train,  prepared  to  turn  into  bed.  And  two 
hours  later  from  that  same  troop  train  which  had 
completed  its  journey,  they  pulled  out  a  sergeant  with 
a  shattered  arm,  a  dead  mule,  and  what  was  left  of  an 
erstwhile  stockbroker's  clerk. 

"I  reckon  we've  got  off  damned  easy,"  said  a  com- 
pany sergeant-major,  to  no  one  in  particular.  "But 
it  don't  seem  fair  someHow — not  that  sort  o'  thing. 
Don't  give  a  feller  a  chance."  x 

Standing  by  his  dead  friend,   Shorty  Bill  heard, 


114  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

and  his  jaw  was  set.  "I'm  thinking  you're  right, 
Major,"  he  said  slowly.  "It  ain't  quite  fair."  He 
turned  away,  thoughtfully  feeling  the  edge  of  his  own 
peculiar  weapon.  And  he  was  still  thoughtful  when 
half-an-hour  later  the  battalion  moved  off  along  the 
wide  pave  road  to  the  east. 

Down  towards  the  station  came  the  long  stream 
of  shambling  figures.  Dressed  in  their  best  black 
clothes — some  on  lorries,  some  in  carts,  but  most  of 
them  on  foot,  the  refugees  left  the  houses  and  farms 
which  had  been  their  world  ever  since  they  could 
remember.  It  had  seemed  impossible  that  anything 
could  ever  happen  to  them.  Every  day  they  had 
heard  the  rumble  of  the  guns  miles  away;  every 
night  they  had  watched — till  the  sight  grew  stale — • 
the  dancing  flashes  on  the  horizon.  Troops  out  at 
rest  had  been  billeted  on  them;  the  parlour  com- 
plete with  the  image  of  Elijah  under  a  glass  dome 
and  photograph  enlargements  of  the  entire  family 
had  been  used  as  an  officers'  mess.  True — there  was 
a  war  on;  but  it  was  away — up  the  road.  It  was 
just  a  question  of  time  before  everything  was  over; 
and  in  the  meantime  the  English  were  very  easy-going. 
Moreover  they  paid  well.  .  .  . 

And  then  it  had  come.  Suddenly  without  warning 
the  troops  in  the  barn  and  the  officers  in  the  parlour 
had  left  them.  They  went  in  the  middle  of  the 
night — without  confusion,  but  so  unexpectedly.  Had 
not  Monsieur  le  Capitaine  been  bargaining  the  previous 
afternoon  for  the  purchase  of  a  pig — one  of  the  latest 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  115 

arrivals  of  a  stout  and  elderly  but  much-respected 
member  of  their  menage.  He  had  taken  a  fancy  to 
a  nice  little  lady  with  two  black  marks  on  her  other- 
wise pink  back;  he  said  that  somehow  the  piglet  re- 
minded him  of  his  only  aunt,  and  had  christened  her 
Tabitha.  But  he  was  droll,  was  he  not — Monsieur  le 
Capitaine. 

And  now  he  had  gone — suddenly  in  the  middle  of 
the  night.  The  farm  was  empty — save  for  a  heap 
of  stores  and  baggage  on  which  two  soldiers  were 
sitting.  Tabitha — little  thinking  of  her  narrow  escape 
— grunted  in  piggy  unison  with  her  brothers  and  sis- 
ters, exploring  new-corners  in  her  world  of  straw  and 
refuse;  the  cows  were  being  milked,  the  hens  were 
scratching  away  as  usual,  and  Margot — the  eldest 
daughter — was  stumping  round  in  her  wooden  sabots 
looking  for  eggs.  Eggs  fetched  good  money  these 
days.  The  English  with  their  barbarous  ideas  of 
breakfast  were  fond  of  eggs,  and  although  the  soldiers 
who  had  been  there  overnight  had  gone — others  would 
come.  It  always  had  been  so — it  always  would  be  so. 
C'est  la  guerre.  .  .  . 

The  guns  were  very  silent  that  morning  it  seemed; 
and  there  were  a  lot  of  soldiers  on  the  road.  Not 
so  much  transport  as  usual  somehow;  more  ambu- 
lances perhaps.  ...  It  did  seem  a  little  different,  but 
there  was  the  farm  work  to  do — the  image  of  Elijah 
to  dust.  .  .  .  Margot  heard  it  first  in  her  pur- 
suit of  an  errant  duck,  and  she  stopped  and  looked 
upwards  in  surprise.  Who-e-e-e  .  .  .  phut.  Like  a 
big  mosquito  something  passed  over  her  head,  and 


n6  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

with  a  metallic  clatter,  one  of  the  tiles  on  the  roof 
broke  in  two  and  fell  on  to  the  bricks  below. 

Madame  popped  her  head  out  of  the  door ;  monsieur 
spat  reflectively.  One  of  the  soldiers  on  the  dump  of 
stores  woke  up  and  scratched  his  head,  while  Margot 
continued  the  duck  hunt.  C'est  la  guerre;  and  just 
at  first  the  fact  that  a  rifle  bullet  had  hit  the  farm 
carried  no  significance. 

It  was  an  hour  later  that  five  or  six  in  succession, 
like  a  flight  of  bees  passed  clean  over  the  house; 
while  faint — very  faint — from  over  the  road  away 
in  the  marshy  field  where  the  kingcups  grew,  there 
came  a  tapping  noise.  But  the  soldiers  slept  and 
the  duck  was  caught,  and  Elijah  was  dusted.  So 
what  did  a  German  machine  gun  in  the  field  of 
Monsieur  le  Maire  matter?  .  .  . 

The  road  grew  more  deserted  of  vehicles — more 
full  of  soldiers.  A  few  men  were  coming  across  the 
open  from  the  little  copse  two  kilometres  away; 
some  shrapnel  white  and  fleecy  burst  high  up,  and  a 
nosecap  whistled  down,  burying  itself  in  close  proxim- 
ity to  Tabitha.  Casually,  indifferently,  Madame 
watched  the  men  who  came  across  the  open.  They 
staggered  a  little  as  they  walked,  swaying  from 
side  to  side.  They  moved  mechanically,  stumbling 
every  now  and  then,  and  as  they  passed  she  saw  that 
their  faces  were  drawn  and  grey. 

A  sergeant  stopped  and  spoke  to  the  two  men  on 
the  baggage,  who  woke  up,  and  again  scratched  their 
heads  thoughtfully.  Then  he  went  on,  leaving  the 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  117 

baggage  guard  arguing.  After  a  while  they  rose 
and  came  over  to  her. 

"  'Op  it,"  remarked  the  spokesman.  "Bodies. 
Napoo."  With  his  finger  he  indicated  the  village  up 
the  road.  "No  blinking  earthly  yer  stopping  'ere, 
madame,"  he  continued.  "Bodies.  Over  there." 
He  waved  a  comprehensive  arm.  Them  fellows  all 
that  was  left;  the  blinking  regiment — napoo." 

Madame,  skilled  in  the  vernacular  through  three 
years'  experience,  felt  something  grow  cold  within 
her.  She  understood  the  gist  of  what  he  had  said, 
and  after  all  these  years — surely  le  bon  Dieu  would 
not  permit  it.  It  was  inconceivable.  The  farm,  so 
sleepy  and  quiet  in  the  drowsy  afternoon  had  been 
her  husband's,  and  her  husband's  father's  before  him. 
It  was  successful,  prosperous;  it  was  their  all,  their 
home.  And  now  to  go  and  leave  it;  to  go  out  into 
the  unknown  with  nothing  more  than  they  could  carry ! 
Ah!  it  was  too  cruel. 

Once  again  the  tapping  came  faintly  through  the 
still  air,  while  two  ambulances  drove  furiously  down 
the  road.  Of  course  they  would  only  be  going  for  a 
short  while;  they  would  be  able  to  return  after  the 
Boches  had  been  driven  back,  and  the  farm  would  not 
be  much  damaged.  A  shell  hole  here  and  there  per- 
haps ;  a  few  tiles  off  the  roof — and  they  could  probably 
take  some  of  their  stock  with  them.  There  were  none 
of  the  usual  signs  of  battle;  no  guns,  no  noise — nothing 
save  that  occasional  tapping,  and  the  road  in  front — 
the  road  along  which  the  lorries  had  bumped  in  an 


ii8  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

endless  stream  for  two  years,  and  which  now  lay 
ominously  quiet  under  the  hot  afternoon  sun. 

A  solitary  lorry  came  lurching  up  the  track  that 
led  to  the  farm  and  pulled  up  outside  the  gates.  The 
driver  and  his  mate  shouted  to  the  two  soldiers,  and 
getting  down  from  their  seats  began  to  help  them  load 
the  baggage  and  stores.  The  men  worked  casually 
and  without  hurry,  and  Madame  consoled  herself  with 
watching  them.  Things  could  not  be  so  urgent  after 
all ;  there  was  no  immediate  danger — otherwise  surely 
they  would  have  hurried?  But  it  takes  a  little  more 
than  two  years*  experience  before  safe  deductions  can 
be  placed  on  the  way  Tommy  works. 

The  last  roll  of  blankets  disappeared  into  the  lorry, 
and  the  four  world's  workers  sat  down  and  discoursed 
a  while.  Then  they  approached  her  and  the  old  time 
question  was  asked.  "Biere,  madame?" 

Surely  all  must  be  well,  thought  Madame.  Biere 
' — why  yes;  good  biere  in  bottles — as  always.  Was 
she  not  famed  far  and  wide  for  her  beer — and  its 
price.  Margot  materialised  from  dark  doings  in  the 
kitchen;  beer  materialised  with  her.  And  the  heart 
of  Madame  was  made  light  again. 

The  soldiers  drank  as  they  had  worked — without 
undue  bustle.  Then  the  spokesman  of  the  party  ad- 
dressed Madame,  while  Margot  politely  listened. 
For  two  years  Madame  and  Margot  had  compre- 
hended one  word  in  every  ten  which  had  been  spoken 
to  them,  and  they  had  always  been  polite.  Hence 
their  trade  and  reputation  as  beer  sellers.  And  that 
afternoon  they  again  understood — just  enough. 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  119 

Enough  to  make  Margot  gaze  round-eyed  at  the  sol- 
dier as  he  spoke;  enough  to  bring  back  Madame's 
secret  fears  one-hundred-fold.  For  he  was  suggest- 
ing that  she  and  her  husband  and  Margot  and  what 
little  they  could  carry  should  forthwith  stow  them- 
selves on  the  lorry  and  go.  Moreover  toute  de  suite 
and  the  touter  the  suiter. 

But  it  was  impossible.  She  waxed  voluble;  Mon- 
sieur, who  had  entered  during  the  conversation,  spat 
in  confirmation ;  Margot  nodded  her  head.  Her  belles 
vaches;  les  cochons;  little  Tabitha  and  the  hens;  the 
soldiers  would  see  it  was  impossible. 

"Napoo,  'Erb,"  murmured  one  of  them  to  the  con- 
versationalist. "The  old  geyser's  taken  root.  Let's 
'ave  another  beer  and  get  a  move  on." 

Another  beer  in  due  course  disappeared,  and  the 
two  soldiers  climbed  up  beside  the  driver.  Once 
again  the  lorry  lurched  over  the  rough  farm  track 
and  turned  towards  the  little  village.  It  was  then 
that  it  struck  Madame  that  for  the  first  time  for  two 
whole  years,  the  farm  was  absolutely  empty  save  for 
the  owners.  .  .  . 

The  sun  was  glinting  through  the  tops  of  the  pop- 
lars that  lined  the  main  road  when  the  battalion  ap- 
peared. It  had  marched  many  miles  since  detraining 
that  morning,  and  it  was  at  full  strength — save  only 
for  a  sergeant  with  a  shattered  arm  who  had  been 
evacuated,  and  a  stockbroker's  clerk  who  had  been 
buried.  The  sight  of  them  brought  back  confidence 
to  Madame;  it  was  what  she  had  grown  to  expect — 
it  was  normal.  Only  little  Margot  standing  by  the 


120  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

gate  as  the  C.O.  rode  in  with  his  Adjutant,  noticed 
that  one  of  the  companies  did  not  leave  the  main  road 
with  the  others,  but  remained — spread  out  along  the 
ditch  beside  it,  while  small  bodies  of  men  pushed  out 
across  the  open  on  the  other  side  towards  the  kingcup 
field  from  which  had  come  the  tapping  noise. 

"These  people  must  be  cleared  out,  Carruthers," 
said  the  C.O.  as  he  dismounted.  "We  can't  leave  'em 
here." 

"It  will  take  more  than  us  to  move  'em,  sir,"  re- 
turned the  Adjutant  with  the  wisdom  born  of  experi- 
ence. 

Madame  was  charming.  She  indicated  the  room 
of  honour — graced  with  Elijah — which  had  always 
served  as  the  mess.  She  stated  that  there  was  beer 
and  CEUJS — all  in  fact  that  the  heart  of  man  could 
desire.  And  as  she  spoke,  there  was  a  droning  roar, 
a  heavy  explosion,  and  every  window  in  the  house 
was  smashed.  Dazedly  she  turned,  wondering  what 
had  happened.  In  one  corner  of  the  yard  hung  a  red 
cloud  of  brickdust  and  fumes,  and  sprawling  around 
it  lay  the  remnants.  An  arm — torn  off — had  been 
flung  nearly  at  her  feet ;  a  head  was  rolling.  .  .  .  But 
why  harrow?  why  enlarge?  Madame  had  looked  on 
war  for  the  first  time,  and  its  suddenness  had  stupe- 
fied her.  Only  Monsieur  still  spat  contempla- 
tively. .  .  . 

"Get  the  men  scattered,  Carruthers."  The  C.O.'s 
voice  cut  in  quietly.  "Move."  And  in  two  minutes 
not  a  man  remained  in  the  yard. 

"II  faut  que  vous  partez,  Madame."    The  Colonel 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  121 

in  his  early  youth  had  passed  an  examination  in 
French  irregular  verbs;  as  a  conversationalist  he  did 
not  excel.  "Nous — nous — what  the  hell  is  the  French 
for  fight — nous  combattons  les  Bodies  id  toute  de 
suite" 

A  dry  sob  shook  Madame,  and  she  put  a  protecting 
arm  round  M argot  who  clung  close  to  her  skirts.  The 
Bodies — here — on  her  farm !  And  there  was  no  one 
to  whom  she  could  turn  for  assistance.  .  .  . 

In  the  mess  room  the  C.O.,  poring  over  a  map,  was 
already  dictating  orders  to  his  Adjutant.  He  had 
told  her  all  he  could,  and  now  she  was  forgotten  in 
bigger  issues.  It  was  her  house,  but  .  .  . 

Two  hours  later  she  turned  at  the  entrance  to  the 
little  village  and  looked  back.  A  line  of  men  stretched 
away  to  the  farm  digging  hard,  and  the  long  shadows 
of  the  poplars  had  already  reached  the  gates.  For  a 
moment  she  stood  there — she,  and  her  husband  and 
little  Margot.  She  could  see  the  cows  peacefully 
grazing — even  the  pink  form  of  Tabitha's  stout 
mother.  Bathed  in  the  golden  glory  of  the  setting 
sun  the  home  of  a  lifetime  bade  her  farewell;  and 
then,  even  as  she  watched,  the  glory  died.  A  cloud 
had  drifted  over  the  sun,  and  the  house  was  chill  and 
dark.  It  was  the  end — and  in  that  moment  she  real- 
ised it. 

Slowly,  falteringly,  as  one  grown  old  of  a  sudden, 
she  walked  on  into  the  village,  without  looking  back. 
And  with  her  was  Margot  clinging  to  her  hand,  and 
Monsieur  still  spitting  apathetically.  C'est  la  guerre. 


122  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

To  Shorty  Bill  the  tactical  situation  was  unknown. 
All  that  concerned  him  was  that  as  dusk  fell  he  found 
himself 'with  his  platoon  at  a  cross-roads  about  a 
mile  from  the  farm  taken  over  by  his  battalion  head- 
quarters. The  platoon  was  picketing  the  roads  and 
nothing  else  was  certain.  As  far  as  they  knew  there 
were  troops  in  front  of  them — but  then  they  didn't 
know  very  far.  Nor  did  any  one  else.  Only  two 
days  before  had  a  certain  brigade — or  what  was  left 
of  them — woken  up  in  the  morning  to  find  two  Ger- 
man battalions  with  massed  bands  marching  in  column 
of  route  along  a  road  half-a-mile  behind  them.  And 
for  a  few  wonderful  seconds  the  Lewis  gunners — or 
what  was  left  of  them — had  lived.  But  it  tends  to 
show  that  the  situation  contained  the  element  of 
doubt. 

Moreover  there  were  no  trenches,  and  the  men 
were  accustomed  to  trenches.  In  the  past  absence 
of  trenches  had  meant  back  areas  and  peace,  and 
custom  is  hard  to  shake.  Cattle  were  wandering  about 
over  the  fields  in  front  of  them,  and  the  only  sign  of 
war  was  a  town  away  in  the  distance  burning  fiercely. 

Then  suddenly  there  came  the  old  familiar  toc-toc- 
toc;  the  old  familiar  swish  of  bullets,  and  the  platoon 
took  cover  in  a  ditch.  A  machine  gun  had  opened 
fire  on  them,  concealed  somewhere  in  that  quiet  coun- 
tryside— behind  some  hedge  perhaps,  or  hidden  in  one 
of  the  barns  in  front.  And  to  Shorty  there  came  the 
sudden  realisation  of  the  new  war.  .  .  . 

With  his  head  raised  above  the  ditch  he  searched 
the  ground  in  front  with  eyes  keen  as  a  hawk's.  A 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  123 

thrill  of  anticipation  ran  through  him.  No  more 
trenches — no  more  crawling  round  saps  in  No  Man's 
Land — but  the  open  country  and  the  game  his  soul 
loved  at  the  end. 

"There  he  is,  son,"  he  murmured  half  to  himself 
half  to  his  section  commander  alongside.  For  five 
minutes  he  had  been  gazing  motionless  into  the  dusk. 
"By  that  stunted  willow,  at  the  meeting  of  them 
two  hedges.  Give  me  the  gun,  boy — give  me  the 
gun.  I'd  like  to  leave  him  till  to-night — but  maybe 
there'll  be  some  more.  Put  the  sights  to  four-fifty." 

He  didn't  fire  quickly — not  the  first  shot;  but  then 
there  came  three  and  it  was  almost  as  if  a  Lewis  gun 
had  fired.  The  platoon  sergeant  who  had  been  told 
that  Shorty  was  on  the  war-path  was  crouching  be- 
hind him  with  field-glasses  to  his  eyes.  So  he  saw 
— almost  as  well  as  Shorty.  Something  dark  lurched 
into  the  hedge  and  half  fell  through  an  opening  where 
it  lay  still ;  another  dark  thing  rose  suddenly  and  spun 
round,  only  to  start  crawling  away  towards  a  little 
copse  behind. 

"Quick,  Shorty,  quick."  Even  as  the  sergeant 
spoke  the  rifle  beside  him  fired  again,  and  the  second 
dark  thing  ceased  to  crawl. 

"Some  blokes  would  have  said  it  was  napoo,"  re- 
marked Shorty  as  he  produced  his  knife.  "Said  they 
was  out  o'  bombing  distance.  Damn  all  bombs." 
With  which  cryptic  utterance  he  added  two  notches 
to  the  existing  line,  and  sloped  away  towards  a  farm 
close  by.  There  were  cows  there,  and  fresh  milk  is 


i24  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

preferable  to  the  tinned  brand.     Half-an-hour  later 
darkness  had  fallen,  and  the  platoon  was  relieved.  .  .  . 

It  was  perhaps  because  the  Hun  was  getting  to 
the  end  of  his  tether  for  the  moment  that  the  situation 
did  not  develop  more  quickly.  It  was  perhaps  be- 
cause of  that  also,  that  Shorty  Bill  never  got  one  of 
those  targets  of  which  he  had  read,  when,  firing  again 
and  again  till  the  rifle  burned  his  hand,  a  man  could 
not  miss. 

Somehow  I  am  glad.  Any  one  can  do  that — it 
requires  no  art.  And  though  it  might  have  doubled 
and  even  trebled  his  score,  it  would  have  lowered 
his  standard.  With  Shorty  every  bird  was  a  high 
one ;  every  nick  represented  art — and  art  in  its  highest 
form  to  the  performer.  Many  of  those  nicks  on  his 
rifle  represented  days  of  ceaseless  toil  and  preparation ; 
long  burning  hours,  when,  disguised  and  motionless 
he  had  lain  surrounded  by  flies  exposed  to  rum  jars, 
to  get  his  quarry.  Often  other  targets  had  exposed 
themselves  during  the  time  he  waited — but  they  never 
drew  him.  He  had  his  own  methods :  he  was  out 
after  one  particular  sniper — not  after  anything  that 
happened  to  come  along.  Other  nicks  on  his  rifle 
represented  moments  when  his  wonderful  eye  had 
spotted  what  no  one  else  could  see,  and  some  unwary 
Hun,  exposing  himself  for  a  fleeting  moment,  had 
preceded  the  machine  gunners  by  the  hedge  into  obliv- 
ion. 

And  on  his  own  peculiar  weapon  the  nicks  repre- 
sented an  even  higher  art.  Each  one  had  a  history 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  125 

— and  some  day  maybe,  those  histories  will  be  written. 
But  in  each  case  it  had  been  man  to  man;  in  each 
case  something  had  happened  suddenly  in  the  dark- 
ness of  a  sap,  or  a  patrol  near  the  wire  in  No  Man's 
Land,  with  the  flares  lobbing  up  on  each  side.  And 
a  Boche  would  be  found  with  his  throat  cut  by  the 
man  behind,  while  away  in  front  the  rank  grass  rustled 
for  a  moment,  and  then  was  still.  Moreover  that 
was  the  time  of  danger  for  the  second  Boche.  It  is 
unwise  to  pay  too  much  attention  to  the  dead,  when 
the  grass  has  rustled  close  by.  And  so  I  am  glad 
that  he  never  bastardised  his  art,  and  that  the  last 
three  nicks  put  a  crown  on  his  work.  For  with  them 
he  topped  the  century,  and  John  Mayhew,  who  was 
with  him  at  the  time,  still  speaks  in  wonder  of  that 
final  score.  John  has  his  knife — but  he  doesn't  use 
it.  He  couldn't  if  he  wanted  to  as  a  matter  of  fact; 
it  was  an  artist's  weapon,  and  Jim  considers  that 
mathematics  are  still  his  strong  point.  But  some  day, 
if  he  survives,  he  may  tell  his  children  of  some  of 
the  nicks  on  the  handle  of  the  strange  knife  that  hangs 
in  the  hall.  .  .  . 

And  in  those  far  distant  days  when  youth  has  come 
back  to  the  world;  when  children  are  children,  and 
laughter  is  heard  once  again ;  when  women  no  longer 
start  and  tremble  at  the  sight  of  a  telegraph  boy,  and 
their  men  sit  down  by  the  fireside  at  night  with  peace 
in  their  hearts;  when  the  whine  of  the  shell  and  the 
drone  of  the  bombing  aeroplane  come  like  a  nightmare 
from  the  past;  then  and  then  only  will  such  stories 
attain  their  true  perspective.  To  the  children  they  will 


126  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

be  fairy  tales  even  as  Jack  and  the  Beanstalk;  to  the 
others  they  will  seem  then  as  fairy  tales  too — the 
tales  of  the  Great  Madness  that  came  upon  the  world. 
And  when  the  woman  goes  upstairs  that  night  in  her 
heart  there  will  be  a  great  thankfulness.  From  the 
depths  of  her  being  there  will  well  up  a  full  "Thank! 
God;  he  was  spared."  And  he — what  of  him?  Back 
on  the  wings  of  time  for  a  moment  he  will  stare  into 
the  fire,  his  pipe  unheeded  in  his  hand.  At  times 
his  eyes  will  glint,  his  muscles  tauten;  he  will  hear 
again  that  German  breathing  in  the  dark  near  by;  he 
will  gallop  once  again  through  that  barrage;  he  will 
see  the  old  Ypres — Poperinghe  road,  the  double 
crassier  at  Loos,  the  village  that  once  was  Guillemont. 
He  will  see — those  others,  those  others  ^who  paid  the 
great  penalty.  And  so  will  the  glint  die  away,  the 
muscles  relax.  Just  a  small  night-cap;  just  one  toast 
— a  silent  toast,  to  those  he  left  behind  across  the 
water.  The  guns  are  silent;  the  peasants  are  back 
in  the  land  where  once  it  was  death  to  stand  upright. 
Occasionally  as  they  go  about  their  work  they  find 
traces  of  old  underground  holes,  where  timbers  rot  and 
rats  swarm;  near  by  are  the  remnants  of  trenches — 
grass-grown  and  crumbling.  And  the  peasants  shrug 
their  shoulders  and  slouch  on.  It  is  all  over;  it  is 
as  if  it  never  had  been  to  those  who  were  not  in  it. 
Only  the  graves  remain  in  the  military  cemeteries; 
and  those  others  who  were  buried  where  they  fell.  In 
the  train  as  you  run  past  Hooge,  having  got  your 
luncheon  basket  at  Ypres,  you  may  see  them — each 
with  their  little  wooden  cross  just  showing  above  the 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  127 

long  rank  grass.  They  are  all  there — scattered  and 
perhaps  lost — the  graves  of  that  great  triumphant 
army:  in  the  woodland,  and  in  the  meadow,  in  the 
dykes  and  on  the  hills. 

And  sometimes  at  night  you  may  see  them.  The 
moon  will  be  shining  through  the  long  straight  pop- 
lars, and  the  estaminets  will  be  full.  Then  they  will 
come  out — that  great  band  of  sportsmen  and  black- 
guards, of  saints  and  sinners,  and  will  throng  again 
through  the  woods  where  the  trees  are  still  but  jagged 
stumps;  will  cluster  again  at  the  crossroads  where 
once  things  happened.  Maybe  the  farmer  walking 
home  late  will  feel  them  around  him,  and  will  quicken 
his  steps.  He  will  turn  into  his  gate,  and  with  a 
shiver  will  bolt  and  bar  the  door — though  the  night 
be  warm.  And  if  he  had  eyes  to  see  and  peered 
through  his  kitchen  window  he  would  see  a  shadowy 
figure  crouching  in  the  road  behind  a  dim  barrier;  if 
he  had  ears  to  hear  he  would  catch  the  swish  of  bullets 
up  the  road.  In  the  long  ago  there  was  a  machine  gun 
there  and  sometimes  the  gunner  who  fired  it  goes 
through  the  performance  again  with  those  he  killed — 
and  they  all  laugh.  It  was  so  mad — so  utterly  fool- 
ish: and  the  trees  creak  with  the  humour  of  it  when 
there  is  no  wind. 

The  materialist — slightly  fuddled  on  vin  blanc — 
and  just  ejected  from  the  Coq  de  Faille,  thinks  the 
breeze  means  rain  on  the  morrow.  But  there  is  no 
rain :  it  is  just  the  laughter  of  those  who  paid  the 
price,  which  goes  whispering  onwards  to  the  ends  of 
the  earth. 


128  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

Just  a  few  will  hear  it  and — understand.  Et  pour 
les  autres — what  does  it  matter?  They  are  still  too 
busy  grabbing  in  the  garbage  for  money :  with  all  the 
same  old  petty  vices  and  hypocrisies — all  the  same  old 
political  messes  and  snobbery.  Nothing  has  altered: 
everything  is  just  the  same  as  ever.  .  .  . 

Only  the  laughter  is  sad — sad  and  a  little  cynical. 
.  .  .  No  heel  taps  in  that  silent  toast — good  and 
bad,  priest  and  waster  they  gave  all  they  had,  and  no 
man  may  do  more.  .  .  . 

The  next  morning  dawned  cold  and  misty.  The 
faint  blue  above  gave  the  promise  of  another  cloudless 
day,  but  John  sitting  in  the  hole  he  had  dug  for 
himself  during  the  night  shivered  as  the  damp  struck 
home.  Next  to  him  Shorty  Bill  was  looking  sombrely 
across  the  deserted  main  road  close  by  them. 

"I've  gotta  sort  o'  feelin',  son,"  he  remarked  slowly 
after  a  while,  "like  I  ain't  never  had  before.  Say — 
do  you  believe  in  seeing  ahead  like — I  don't  rightly 
know  the  word." 

"Presentiment?"  Mayhew  looked  up  sharply. 
"I  don't.  Chuck  it,  Shorty." 

But  Shorty  seemed  not  to  hear.  "Do  you  see  the 
little  wisps  of  fog  circling  round  them  hop-pole^  ?  Do 
you  see  how  it  lies  in  that  bit  of  a  dip  there?  It's 
queer,  boy,  that  there  mist.  An'  this  village  here  just 
sort  o'  clothed  in  it  somehow.  All  dead  and  cold — 
and  a  few  days  ago  it  was  alive  and  warm,  and  folks 
was  having  their  drop  of  beer  in  those  very  houses. 
I  guess  I  don't  like  that  there  mist." 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  129 

"You  used  to  like  it,  Shorty,  way  up  in  Passchen- 
daele,"  answered  Mayhew ;  "said  it  helped  you/' 

"I  reckon  it  was  different,  son."  Shorty  produced 
his  pipe,  and  filled  it  carefully.  "It  was  dead  there 
— the  land  was  dead;  the  mist  seemed  to  fit  in  like. 
Here  it  ought  to  be  alive — and  it  isn't.  I  guess  it's 
kind  o'  dead — that  there  little  village — but  it  ain't 
buried  yet.  Maybe  we'll  be  seeing  the  burial  service 
this  mornin'."  Shorty  puffed  at  his  pipe  and  relapsed 
into  silence. 

Away  in  front  the  ground  began  to  show  up  as  the 
mist  lifted,  and  suddenly  Mayhew  was  roused  out  of 
his  uneasy  dose  by  the  sound  of  voices  above  him. 
Standing  outside  the  trench  were  the  C.O.  and  his 
Adjutant,  talking  to  the  Company  Commander. 

"I'm  told,"  said  the  C.O.,  "that  we're  covered,  but 
I'm  damned  if  I  know.  A  patrol  from  D  Company 
was  out  last  night  and  didn't  meet  a  soul — ours  or 
theirs." 

"It  seems  pretty  quiet,  sir,  at  present."  The  Adju- 
tant was  looking  through  his  field-glasses. 

"It's  this  bally  village  I  don't  like."  The  Com- 
pany Commander  seemed  uneasy.  "I've  got  a  strong 
detachment  the  other  side,  and  it's  in  touch  with  the 
Rutlands.  But  I  hate  villages  in  the  line."  The 
three  officers  passed  on  in  the  direction  of  Battalion 
Headquarters  and  Shorty  grinned. 

"I  reckons  we're  in  for  a  ragtime  sort  of  stunt,  son," 
he  remarked  cheerfully.  "Sargent,  I  guess  I  might 
see  somethin'  from  that  house  over  there  to  clear  the 


130  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

air  a  bit.  I'm  thinking  I'll  go  across  and  have  a 
look." 

"Right  oh!  Shorty."  The  platoon  sergeant 
stopped  as  he  passed.  "Don't  go  and  lose  yerself. 
Better  take  Mayhew  with  you  so  as  you  can  send 
back  a  message.  Not  as  you're  likely  to.  I  reckons 
Jerry  ain't  troubling  us  to-day." 

The  house  in  question  was  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
village,  and  commanded  a  view  of  the  little  dip  which 
had  caught  Shorty's  eye  earlier  in  the  morning.  The 
door  leaned  drunkenly  outwards,  and,  across  the 
broken  windows,  a  network  of  telegraph  wires,  cut 
down  by  shell  fire,  lay  twisted  in  confusion. 

Kind  of  dead — but  not  buried  yet — John  Mayhew, 
as  he  peered  into  the  front  room,  recalled  Shorty  Bill's 
words.  A  great  hole  gaped  in  the  mud  wall,  showing 
the  kitchen  on.  the  other  side;  and  yet  another  great 
hole  beyond  showed  a  glimpse  of  the  garden  beyond. 
Over  everything  lay  a  thick  red  coating  of  brick 
dust,  which  covered  the  window-sill  and  the  chairs, 
and  a  heap  of  old  clothes  that  was  lying  on  the  table. 
Some  plates  and  cups  had  been  heaped  in  one  corner, 
and  through  the  door  of  the  room  the  stairs  splintered 
and  broken  could  be  seen  with  the  banisters  still 
standing. 

"Not  quite  dead,"  said  John  thoughtfully,  "not 
quite  dead  somehow.  It's  been  lived  in  too  recently." 
And  even  as  he  spoke  with  a  shrill  squawk  a  hen  flew; 
out  into  the  garden  from  the  kitchen.  .  .  . 

Mayhew  lifted  his  leg  to  clamber  into  the  room. 
A  cloud  of  stifling  dust  followed  him  as  he  moved 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  131 

across  the  floor  into  the  kitchen,  where  another  hen 
clucking  angrily  appeared  to  resent  his  presence.  A 
stout  terrior  with  an  abnormally  long  and  curly  tail 
sidled  in  from  the  garden  and  regarded  him  pensively ; 
khaki  was  familiar  to  her  and  in  the  past  had  generally 
meant  food.  And  just  recently  food  had  not  been 
forthcoming;  there  appeared  to  have  been  an  up- 
heaval in  the  dog  world  of  the  village. 

"Got  a  bit  of  biscuit,  Shorty?"  Mayhew  turned  to 
speak  to  his  companion  and  the  words  died  away  in 
his  mouth.  For  Shorty  was  standing  in  the  little 
hall  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  staircase.  More- 
over there  was  the  glint  in  them  which  Jim  knew  of 
old. 

"Not  quite  dead,  I  reckons,  son."  Shorty  still 
peering  at  the  stairs  came  slowly  towards  him,  and 
Jim  saw  him  slip  the  safety  catch  of  his  rifle  forward. 
"And  that's  a  rum-looking  dog  I  guess,  but  go  and 
look  at  them  stairs,  boy."  With  unnecessary  noise 
he  dislodged  a  tin.  "I'm  thinking  we've  struck  a  dud 
in  this  house.  Well,  dawg,  d'you  understand  Eng- 
lish." He  looked  straight  at  Mayhew.  "You  never 
knows  who  understands  English  in  this  blinking 
country." 

"What  the  devil  is  it,  Shorty?"  muttered  Jim. 

Shorty's  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  the  stairs.  "'Move 
about,  son,"  he  said,  softly.  "Whistle — make  a  noise. 
There  are  footprints  in  the  dust  on  them  stairs.  They 
goes  up — but  they  don't  come  down.  Now  why 
should  people  go  upstairs  and  not  come  down  again 
— and  who  are  they  anyway?" 


132  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

The  stout  terrier  still  sat  on  the  floor  pensively 
regarding  them;  the  hens  still  scratched  about  in  the 
garden  outside ;  everything  seemed  just  as  it  had  been 
• — except  that  the  hair  at  the  base  of  Mayhew's  scalp 
was  pricking  strangely.  For  if  there  was  anybody  up 
there  who  could  it  be  but  .  .  .  And  at  that  moment 
something  fell  on  the  floor  of  the  room  above. 

"Watch  it,  boy,"  said  Shorty  with  a  fleeting  grin, 
"watch  the  top  of  the  stairs.  What  did  I  tell  you 
this  mornin'  about  that  there  presentiment  of  mine?" 
Swiftly  and  methodically  he  was  stripping  off  his 
equipment.  "I'll  be  wanting  you  just  to  cover  my 
advance  with  a  bit  of  noise.  Sing  a  song,  Jim.  What's 
that  one  about  the  feller  meetin'  his  last  love  that  bloke 
in  the  'Shrapnels'  used  to  sing?  Catchy  little  toon  that. 
And  if  the  dawg  joins  in,  so  much  the  better." 

"Who  are  up  there,  Shorty?"  Mayhew's  voice 
was  shaking  with  excitement. 

"That's  what  I'm  wanting  to  see."  With  his  rifle 
at  the  ready,  and  his  Kukri-bill  hook  slung  on  his  belt, 
Shorty  crept  towards  the  stairs.  "Sing,  you  perisher, 
sing." 

To  the  lover  of  the  conventional  it  must  have  been 
a  strange  sight.  In  the  kitchen  a  teacher  of  pure 
mathematics  raised  his  extremely  unmelodious  voice 
in  a  song  to  which  London  listened  nightly,  while  he 
watched  Shorty  cautiously  feeling  his  way  up  the 
rickety  stairs.  Every  now  and  then  loud  cracks  oc- 
curred, and  the  singer's  voice  rose  in  a  discordant  bray 
to  cover  the  incident. 

It  was  farce — roaring  farce;  then  in  a  second  it 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  133 

was  tragedy.  Mayhew  saw  it  first — just  at  the  top 
of  the  stairs;  then  Shorty  saw  it — and  paused.  Just 
a  little  eddy  of  red  brick  dust  and  there  was  no  wind. 
It  came  from  the  passage  above,  and  dust  does  not  get 
up  unless  it  is  disturbed. 

The  song  continued  though  the  singer's  voice  seemed 
curiously  muffled.  But  then,  when  a  man's  cheek  is 
up  against  the  stock  of  his  gun  he  cannot  perform  in 
opera,  and  Mayhew  saw  instinctively  that  this  first 
one  would  be  his  shot.  Away  from  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  as  he  was,  he  must  see  the  cause  of  the  dust 
eddy  before  Shorty  who  was  halfway  up  them. 

Something  was  rising — something  outlined  against 
the  dim  light  upstairs — something  round.  Resting 
his  gun  against  the  door  he  waited,  while  Shorty — 
with  a  quick  look  round — took  in  the  situation  and 
crouched  against  the  banisters.  Very  slowly  it  rose 
— that  round  object  which  seemed  about  the  size  of  a 
pumpkin,  while  the  song  still  maundered  on.  And 
then  the  singer  stopped.  There  was  a  moment's 
silence,  and  the  crack  of  a  rifle  echoed  through  the 
house. 

With  one  bound  Shorty  was  up  the  stairs,  and  a 
second  shot  rang  out  followed  by  a  stabbing  grunt  as 
he  lunged  with  his  bayonet.  The  dust  was  rising  in 
choking  clouds  as  Mayhew  reached  the  landing,  and 
he  tripped  heavily  over  the  body  lying  at  the  top  of 
the  stairs.  It  was  the  Hun  he  had  killed,  and  his  head 
was  split  like  a  rotten  melon.  With  a  curse  he  picked 
himself  up  and  dashed  into  the  little  front  room. 

By  the  window  stood  a  machine  gun  ready  mounted, 


134  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

with  a  German,  whose  body  still  heaved,  lying  near 
the  tripod.  In  one  corner  another  Hun  was  trying 
feebly  to  pull  the  bayonet  out  of  his  body  with  Shorty's 
rifle  still  attached  to  it.  He  had  crashed  down  with 
the  awful  force  of  the  blow,  and  he  lay  as  he  fell 
cursing.  But  Mayhew  had  no  eyes  for  him  or  the 
hatred  on  his  face;  he  was  gazing  at  the  other  two 
figures. 

Swaying  backwards  and  forwards  were  Shorty  and 
a  Boche  non-commissioned  officer.  He  was  a  huge 
man — the  Boche — and  his  condition  was  good. 
Neither  of  them  seemed  to  notice  the  spectator;  they 
fought  silently  with  hatred  in  their  eyes — those  two 
who  had  no  personal  quarrel.  Ten  times  over  could 
Mayhew  have  shot  the  Hun,  but  each  time  he  paused 
— for  he  knew  Shorty  would  never  have  forgiven  him. 

And  now  their  breathing  was  coming  fast,  as  locked 
together  they  stood  almost  motionless.  Each  was 
putting  forward  his  maximum  effort  to  bring  his 
weapon  into  use.  If  only  the  Hun  could  bring  his 
right  arm  with  the  revolver  in  it  down  just  a  little; 
if  only  Shorty's  knife  could  reach  up  another  foot 
...  if  only.  .  .  .  And  then  the  Hun  cursed  and 
Shorty  laughed — a  short,  sharp  laugh;  for  the  knife 
was  moving  and  the  revolver  was  not.  Inch  by  inch 
Shorty  Bill's  right  hand  was  coming  up  towards  the 
German's  neck ;  and  Mayhew,  blind  to  everything  else, 
never  noticed  the  dying  man  in  the  corner. 

Then  suddenly  it  was  over  and  Shorty  laughed 
again.  For  a  moment  or  two  he  supported  the  Boche  ; 
then  he  let  him  fall. 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  135 

"A  man — that."  Shorty  looked  down  on  his  late 
opponent  lying  at  his  feet.  "Once — for  a  moment — 
I  thought  he'd  got  me." 

"What  about  your  presentiment,  Shorty,"  laughed 
Mayhew,  and  even  as  he  asked  the  question  he  got  the 
answer. 

With  his  dying  effort  the  man  in  the  corner  had 
drawn  his  revolver  unnoticed,  and  with  Shorty's  bayo- 
net inside  him  still,  he  fired.  Shorty  spun  round, 
and  then  slowly  sank  down  on  the  floor. 

"That  about  it,  son,"  he  said  quietly.  "No,  no, 
lad — let  him  be.  He  only  did  what  I'd  have  done 
myself,  I  reckons."  He  grinned  feebly.  "I  guess  I 
forgot  the  merchant  altogether.  And  he's  dead  now, 
anyway." 

Jim  knelt  down  beside  his  friend,  and  supported 
his  head. 

"It  had  to  come  some  time,  boy,  and  my  last  was 
a  good  'un.  I  reckons  we'll  talk  that  scrap  over  again 
in  a  few  minutes."  Shorty  Bill's  voice  was  feeble. 
"Don't  forget  it's  your  rifle  you'll  be  wanting  these 
days  .  .  .  infantryman's  weapon  ...  no  damned 
bombs.  .  .  ."  His  head  fell  forward;  then  he  raised 
it  with  a  jerk.  "Write  a  note  to  the  little  gal,  son. 
.  .  .  Rose.  .  .  .  Letter's  in  me  pocket."  He  was 
very  nearly  gone.  Outside  the  noise  of  rifle  fire  was 
growing  more  intense,  and  shrapnel  was  bursting 
along  the  main  road.  "Good  fighting,  son.  Pick  your 
man  and  kill  him.  I  guess  it's  the  .  .  .  only  .  .  . 
way.  It's  a  bloody  game — but  stick  it,  boy,  stick  it. 
It's  all  comin'  right.  ...  So  long." 


136  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

Thus  did  he  die,  and  John  Mayhew  laid  him  down 
gently  in  the  brick  dust,  beside  the  dead  machine-gun 
team. 

A  rapid  burst  of  Lewis-gun  fire  from  the  other  side 
of  the  road  warned  him  that  it  was  unwise  to  linger, 
and  with  a  final  glance  at  his  friend  and  instructor 
he  went  slowly  out  of  the  room.  He  took  with  him 
Shorty's  knife — and  in  his  pocket  was  the  girl's  ad- 
dress. 

She  would  have  forgotten  all  about  him  in  all 
probability — and  yet  Shorty  was  not  a  man  whom 
any  one  could  forget.  So  he  would  write — when  he 
got  the  chance — and  tell  her,  that  one  man,  at  any 
rate,  had  thought  about  her  at  the  end.  .  .  . 

"Where's  Shorty?"  The  platoon  sergeant  passing 
down  the  trench  saw  the  knife  and  stopped. 

"Dead;  and  a  German  machine-gun  team  are  dead 
too."  Mayhew  came  out  of  his  reverie.  "In  that 
room — all  four  of  'em  together — and  one  in  the  pas- 
sage." 

"My  God !"  The  sergeant  regarded  him  in  amaze- 
ment. "In  that  house  over  there?  A  machine  gun. 
When  did  it  get  there?" 

"Last  night,  I  suppose — to  enfilade  us."  Leaning 
against  the  parapet  Mayhew  watched  the  ground  in 
front,  and  his  eyes  were  weary.  Away  down  on  the 
left  an  attack  was  materialising,  and  it  seemed  to  be 
spreading  up  towards  them.  "I  guess  that  machine- 
gun  team  wasn't  wasted  from  the  Boche  point  of 
yiew — if  they  only  knew. 

"Is  he  still  there  ?"  demanded  the  sergeant. 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  137 

"Yes.  I'm  going  back  for  him  later — if  I  can." 
Mayhew  was  still  looking  over  the  parapet.  "Here 
they  come." 

And  they  came — for  two  hours.  Firing  ceaselessly 
the  battalion  watched  the  line  of  dead  grow  dense 
and  denser;  and  all  the  time,  in  Mayhew's  ears,  were 
ringing  those  last  words  of  his  pal. 

"It's  a  bloody  game — but  stick  it,  boy  stick  it.  .  .  ." 

Coolly  and  deliberately  he  shot,  choosing  each  target 
with  care.  He  seemed  to  be  living  in  a  dream,  and 
only  the  sights  of  his  rifle  and  the  grey  targets  were 
real.  And  the  room  upstairs  .  .  .  where  five  men 
lay  in  their  last  sleep.  .  .  . 

Behind  him  the  Headquarters  farm  was  blazing 
fiercely;  but  he  had  no  eyes  for  it.  He  only  cursed 
when  a  great  volume  of  black  smoke  rolled  slowly 
between  him  and  a  certain  group  of  Huns  he  was 
shooting  at  by  the  corner  of  a  hopfield. 

Then  gradually  the  rifle  fire  died  away,  and  he 
watched  the  white  flares  sent  up  by  the  Germans  to 
show  their  gunners  where  they  had  reached.  He  felt 
dazed — and  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  to  shoot  at. 

Then  the  shelling  started.  Shrapnel  and  high  ex- 
plosive rained  down  on  the  trench — on  the  road — on 
the  village.  And  Mayhew  sat  in  a  sort  of  stupor 
against  the  parapet — turning  over  slowly  in  his  mind 
a  problem  which  he  was  accustomed  to  give  his  stu- 
dents. It  struck  him  as  being  singularly  futile — that 
problem;  singularly  out  of  touch  with  life  as  it  was. 
Shorty  couldn't  have  solved  it;  Shorty  wouldn't  even 
have  understood  the  question.  And  Shorty  repre- 


138  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

sented  life  as  it  was.  Then  he  laughed,  and  the  man 
next  him  cursed  bitterly  and  savagely. 

The  trench  was  being  torn  to  pieces;  it  was  ceasing 
to  be  a  trench.  Great  tearing  bursts  came  from  all 
along  it;  jagged  fragments  whistled  down,  cutting 
through  the  branches  of  the  trees  that  lined  the  road. 
And  still  the  shelling  went  on.  ... 

Mayhew  lost  all  count  of  time;  his  sensations  were 
confined  to  whether  the  next  one  would  be  close  or  far 
away.  Ten  yards  from  him  what  was  left  of  his 
platoon  sergeant  and  two  men  of  his  section,  had 
slipped  down  to  the  bottom  of  a  crater ;  a  little  farther 
along  the  company  commander  with  his  leg  shattered 
was  crawling  along,  cheering  up  the  men.  Ani  sud- 
denly Mayhew  started  to  sob,  while  the  man  next  him 
cursed  again,  bitterly  and  savagely.  .  .  . 

Then  above  the  roar  of  the  shells  came  the  old 
familiar  note — the  sound  of  rifle  fire.  From  different 
sectors  all  along  the  trench  men  were  standing  up  and 
shooting  across  the  road.  The  Huns  were  trying 
again  with  their  infantry. 

Mayhew  ceased  sobbing,  and  kicked  the  blasphemer 
next  him,  hard  and  true. 

"Fire,  you  swab,"  he  croaked;  "fire — God  damn 
you." 

With  his  eyes  blazing  he  belted  away  at  the  grey 
mass;  saw  it  fade  away — come  on  again;  surge  up 
to  the  road  and  melt  into  nothing.  And  running  down 
the  ranks  there  came  a  ragged  pitiful  cheer.  .  .  . 

It  was  the  end — for  the  time ;  the  Boche  had  failed. 


THE  HUMAN  TOUCH  139 

Had  the  machine  gun  been  in  the  house — who  knows, 
but  what  he  might  have  succeeded  ? 

John  Mayhew  went  on  ration  fatigue  that  night 
— and  when  he  got  back  the  battalion — or  what  was 
left  of  it — had  pulled  out  of  the  line.  Mayhew  found 
his  company  near  the  smouldering  farm,  and  in  front 
—on  the  road — he  saw  a  sight  which  made  him  pause. 

For  at  the  end  of  the  village  a  dull,  red  glow  was 
spreading,  and  every  now  and  then  a  tongue  of  flame 
shot  up  into  the  night.  It  was  Shorty's  funeral  pyre 
— and  Mayhew  felt  glad. 

"So  long,  old  man,"  he  muttered.  "It's  all  comin' 
right — never  fear." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  TRUCE  OF  THE  BEAR 

"When  he  stands  up  as  pleading,  in  wavering  man-brute 

guise, 
When  he  veils  the  hate  and  cunning  of  the  little  swinish 

eyes, 
When  he  shows  as  seeking  quarter,  with  paws  like  hands  in 

prayer, 
That  is  the  time  of  peril — the  time  of  the  Truce  of  the 

Bear !"  —KIPLING. 


OVER  the  land  lay  the  Great  White  Silence. 
Rugged  and  beetling,  with  the  sentinel  pines 
creaking  eerily  on  its  slopes,  the  ridge  stretched  away 
to  the  North — to  the  land  where  the  lights  of  opal  and 
gold  quiver  and  tremble  in  the  skies,  till  the  glory  of 
them  makes  the  beholder  cover  his  face.  From  below, 
the  ceaseless  roar  of  the  torrent,  rushing  through  the 
gloom  of  the  canyon,  came  monotonously  to  the  ear 
of  the  man  who  crouched  motionless  beside  one  of  the 
bleak  firs.  His  keen  eyes,  steady  and  sharp  as  those  of  a 
lynx,  were  fixed  unblinkingly  on  an  opening  in  the  hill- 
side twenty  odd  yards  away ;  and  in  his  hands,  cradled 
in  the  grey  moss  round  the  tree-trunk,  he  held  a 

140 


THE  TRUCE  OF  THE  BEAR      141 

rifle.  The  pines  were  singing  the  song  of  the  ages, 
with  the  icy  wind  from  the  everlasting  snows  as  the 
accompaniment;  but  to  the  man  it  was  just  the  soli- 
tude that  he  loved,  the  voice  of  the  wild,  the  hush 
of  the  lone  North  mountains.  He  seemed  not  to  feel 
the  cold ;  remorseless  and  still  he  crouched  there  watch- 
ing, the  only  human  being  in  the  whole  mighty  wilder- 
ness. 

Suddenly  he  stiffened,  and  his  grip  tightened  on  the 
rifle.  So  small  was  the  movement  as  to  be  almost 
imperceptible,  and  to  a  townsman,  even  if  he  had  seen 
it,  its  reason  would  not  have  been  clear.  Apparently 
everything  was  just  the  same.  The  roar  of  the  waters, 
the  sighing  wind  moaning  through  the  tops  of  the 
trees,  the  brooding  land  bright  in  the  icy  moon — all 
was  just  the  same.  Nothing  had  altered  to  make  the 
silent  watcher  catch  his  breath  with  a  little  short  hiss, 
and  his  jaw  set  firm  till  it  might  have  been  chiselled 
in  rock.  Nothing,  .that  is,  to  the  onlooker.  But  then 
he  would  have  been  a  townsman,  and  to  such  the  Law 
of  the  Wild  is  a  closed  book.  For  the  watcher  had 
heard  the  sound  he  .had  been  waiting  for,  and  he  knew 
that  his  vigil  was  nearly  over. 

Pig  eyes  glinting,  head  roving  from  side  to  side  as 
he  sniffed  the  air,  there  shambled  from  the  hole  a  mon- 
strous grizzly.  For  a  few  seconds  he  paused  at  the 
entrance  to  his  cave,  conscious  that  there  was  danger, 
but  unable  to  see  where  it  lay.  Grunting,  he  looked 
round;  then  he  shambled  forward  a  few  paces,  and 
stopped  again;  while  the  man  waited,  so  motionless, 
that  he  hardly  seemed  to  breathe.  Then  the  bear  saw 


142  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

him  and  roared — a  snarling  roar  of  rage  and  fear. 
Man — the  Lord  of  the  Wild  Things — had  tracked  him 
to  his  lair,  and  he  knew  what  that  meant.  That  silent,, 
menacing  figure,  whose  eyes  seemed  to  bore  into  him, 
and  whose  hands  held  the  stick  of  death — yes,  he  knew 
what  that  meant. 

Suddenly  he  rose  on  his  hind  legs,  and  grunted 
again.  If  only  he  could  get  his  enemy  clasped  once 
to  him  with  those  great  hairy  paws,  if  only  he  could 

squeeze  and  squeeze  till  the  bones  broke,  if  only 

He  shambled  grotesquely  forward,  swaying  from  side 
to  side,  revolting  and  horrible,  like  some  hairy,  pre- 
historic man.  He  groaned  and  chuckled,  "with  paws 
like  hands  in  prayer,"  and  then 

Through  the  mountain  vastness  an  echo  rang  and 
was  flung  to  the  ravines  on  high.  It  mocked  the  sigh- 
ing wind,  it  drowned  the  roar  of  the  water,  until,  at 
length,  it  died  away,  lost  and  whispering  in  the  ever- 
lasting snows. 

With  a  grunt  of  satisfaction  the  man  stepped  out 
and  shook  himself. 

"It's  when  you  plead  and  pray  that  I  don't  like  you, 
cully,"  he  said  softly,  touching  the  quivering  carcase 
with  his  boot.  "It's  the  only  time  you're  really  dan- 
gerous." 

ii 

Over  the  land  lay  the  Great  Grey  Silence.  A  vast 
expanse  of  sticky  slime  stretched  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  see.  Away  to  the  left  a  charred  skeleton  house, 


THE  TRUCE  OF  THE  BEAR      143 

surrounded  by  some  splintered  toothpick  trees,  stuck 
out  of  the  stagnant  ooze.  Every  now  and  then  would 
come  a  great  rushing  noise,  followed  by  the  roar  of 
an  explosion,  and  from  the  face  of  a  desolate  world 
there  would  shoot  up  a  sullen,  stifling  cloud  of  black 
and  yellow  fumes.  Gradually  it  would  drift  away, 
and  once  again  a  dull-grey  sky  would  look  down  on  a 
dull-grey  world.  The  only  splashes  of  colour  lay  in 
the  pools  of  water — and  they  were  sombre;  God  knows 
they  were  sombre.  In  each  of  the  countless  holes, 
which  grew  like  a  loathsome  disease  all  over  the  grey 
country,  there  lay  a  pool,  a  stinking,  filthy  pool.  Some- 
times it  was  green,  and  covered  with  a  white  scum; 
sometimes  it  was  grey  and  lifeless,  just,  like  the  hole 
it  lay  in ;  sometimes  it  was  red 

Things  stuck  out  of  the  pools — bits  of  equipment, 
bandoliers,  tins  of  bully  beef.  In  some  a  mule,  its  legs 
stiff  and  pointing,  would  lie  upon  its  back  at  a  strange 
angle,  its  eyes  glazed  and  lifeless.  In  some  a  man 
would  lie  sprawling,  head  downwards  in  the  water, 
with  white  chalky  hands  which  had  scrabbled  in  the 
mud,  and  now  were  still.  In  some  a  knee  would  stick 
up  above  the  loathsome,  fetid  water;  in  some  things 
floated — things  not  good  to  look  upon. 

Crouching,  shivering  in  the  holes,  were  men — grey 
men.  The  mud  on  the  sides  of  the  holes  was  like 
the  mud  under  London  Bridge  when  the  river  is  low, 
and  in  that  mud  lived  the  men.  Not  in  all  the  holes — 
only  a  selected  few  along  the  lines  which  had  been 
reached  in  the  last  advance.  And  even  along  that  line 
the  holes  which  were  occupied  were  not  continuous. 


144  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

Scattered  here  and  there,  isolated  and  cut  off,  little 
groups  of  men  crouched  and  lived.  Sometimes  one  of 
the  clouds  of  black  and  yellow  smoke  would  shoot  up 
from  an  occupied  hole.  Then  other  things  would  go 
up  with  it,  and  when  everything  had  cleared  away 
the  hole  would  have  changed.  The  sides  would  be 
yellow  and  black,  save  in  one  place  where  they  were 
red,  and  sticking  out  of  the  pool,  on  which  already 
the  red  scum  was  forming,  would  be  a  fragment.  But 
it  would  not  affect  the  other  hole-dwellers.  Probably 
they  would  know  nothing  of  what  had  happened,  and, 
even  if  they  did,  their  job  was  to  continue  sitting  on 
the  side  above  the  water.  In  fact,  their  only  amuse- 
ment was  to  cut  a  recess  in  the  wet  mud,  in  order  to 
prevent  themselves  slipping  down  into  the  water. 
Sometimes  an  enthusiast  would  try  and  link  up  his 
hole  with  the  next  gentleman's;  sometimes  an  in- 
ventive genius  would  try  and  drain  his  abode  of  bliss 
by  cutting  a  trench  into  another  unoccupied  hole.  But 
this  latter  pastime  is  not  altogether  to  be  recommended 
unless  the  cutter  is  quite  sure  of  being  able  to  put  into 
practice  the  well-known  theory  that  water  does  not 
flow  uphill.  It  is  most  annoying,  having  cut  the  drain, 
to  find  that  it  is  the  other  hole  which  empties  into 
yours. 

In  one  of  these  holes,  crouching  in  a  little  recess  he 
had  dug,  there  knelt  a  man.  His  face,  his  hands,  his 
clothes  were  coated  thick  with  half -congealed  mud; 
only  his  eyes,  steady  and  sharp  as  a  lynx,  were  fixed 
unblinkingly  on  a  spot  in  the  grey  sea  twenty  odd 
yards  away.  There  was  no  sign  of  movement,  there 


THE  TRUCE  OF  THE  BEAR      145 

was  nothing  to  distinguish  the  spot  he  was  watching 
from  the  rest  of  the  filthy  slush,  and  yet  for  half  an 
hour  his  eyes  had  never  left  it.  The  stinking  earth 
in  front  was  pitted  and  shattered,  and  glistened  with 
the  rainbow  colours  of  wet  mud,  but  the  watcher's  eyes 
were  fixed  on  a  gaping  crack  between  two  glutinous 
lumps.  Cradled  in  his  hand  was  a  rifle — a  rifle  of 
which  the  sights  were  hidden  and  coated  with  the 
all-pervading  mud,  but  a  rifle  in  which  the  barrel  was 
clean  and  shining.  It  didn't  look  much,  that  gun;  it 
would  have  meant  imprisonment  for  life  on  a  rifle 
inspection;  but  it  could  be  fired  through,  which  was 
more  than  could  be  said  for  most  of  those  that  find 
their  way  to  the  Grey  Land  of  Filth. 

The  man  had  been  there  since  the  advance  at  dawn. 
The  lines  of  wading,  struggling  men  had  slowly  ad- 
vanced, now  slipping  out  of  sight  into  the  stagnant 
pools,  now  pausing  to  pluck  themselves  from  the  glue. 
They  had  reached  their  objective — the  group  o«f  holes 
lately  occupied  by  the  Huns — and  they  had  killed  the 
occupiers.  In  some  cases  the  occupiers  had  killed  them, 
which  is  the  whole  of  war  when  shorn  of  its  trappings 
and  reduced  to  the  language  of  those  who  perform. 
And,  having  reached  their  objective,  they  sat  there, 
until  in  the  fulness  of  time  other  wading,  struggling 
men  would  sog  down  beside  them  in  their  shell  holes, 
and  they  would  be  relieved. 

Occasionally  the  onlooker  might  see  a  steel  helmet 
move  for  a  moment,  in  the  huge  sea  of  dirt,  as  a  man's 
head  came  above  ground-level;  occasionally,  in  the 
distance,  far  back  from  the  front  line,  a  small  party 


146  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

of  men  might  be  seen  floundering  and  heaving  its 
way  along.  Then  if  the  party  was  not  too  far  away 
there  would  come  a  short,  sharp  crack,  the  hum  of  a 
rifle  bullet,  the  "who-e-e"  as  it  passed  into  the  distance, 
and  the  party  would  duck  hurriedly  and  disappear. 
They  were  being  sniped — sniped  from  one  of  the 
countless  holes  that  go  to  make  the  disease  called  Flan- 
ders. And  one  of  the  British  snipers  was  the  man  who 
crouched  in  the  hole,  watching. 

Up  to  date  he  had  had  ten  targets,  and  he  believed 
that  six  had  been  bulls.  When  a  man  can  really  shoot 
with  a  rifle,  there  is  a  sort  of  sixth  sense  which  tells 
him  when  he's  scored — a  sense  which  tells  him  the  dif- 
ference between  the  man  who  ducks  because  it  was 
near  and  the  man  who  ducks  because  he  is  dead.  It 
had  amused  him  vastly  through  the  long  weary  hours 
lying  there,  watching,  waiting,  and — then,  the  kick 
of  the  gun  in  his  shoulder  as  he  got  his  quarry  on  the 
foresight,  the  slow  lifting  of  his  cheek  from  the  stock 
to  watch  the  result.  Twice  had  he  seen  his  target 
throw  up  his  hands  and  pitch  forward,  and  one  of 
those  he  could  still  see — a  motionless  lump  sprawling 
out  of  a  shell  hole.  And  for  the  others — well,  he 
hoped  for  the  best  with  four,  as  I  have  said. 

But  for  the  last  half -hour  he  had  not  been  firing. 
Two  good  targets  had  come  and  gone,  and  he  had 
watched  them  regretfully  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye, 
but  he  had  made  no  attempt  to  fire  at  them;  he  had 
continued  lying  motionless,  watching  the  spot  a  score 
of  yards  away. 

Suddenly  he  stiffened,  and  his  grip  tightened  on  the 


THE  TRUCE  OF  THE  BEAR      147 

rifle.  So  small  was  the  movement  as  to  be  almost 
imperceptible,  and  to  the  onlooker,  even  if  he  had  seen 
it,  its  reason  would  not  have  been  clear.  Apparently 
everything  was  just  the  same.  The  grey  stagnant  sea, 
the  charred  skeleton  houses  surrounded  by  the  splin- 
tered toothpick  trees — it  was  all  just  the  same. 
Nothing  had  altered,  except  that  the  silent  watcher  had 
seen  what  he  was  waiting  for,  and  he  knew  that  his 
vigil  was  nearly  over. 

Through  the  crack  between  the  two  glutinous 
lumps,  there  had  shone  for  a  moment  a  chink  of  light, 
and  a  little  blob  of  mud  had  slipped  forward.  A  hole 
made  by  a  man's  finger  had  appeared,  and  the  sniper 
knew  that  he  was  being  watched.  Snipers  are  not 
popular  with  those  they  snipe. 

And  now  he  was  waiting  for  the  next  move  in  the 
game  of  no  mistakes. 

It  came  quite  quickly. 

"Kamerad!"  A  voice  hailed  him — a  voice  with  no 
visible  owner.  "Kamerad!  I  to  surrender  wish! 
Kamerad!" 

"Then  come  over  here  with  your  hands  up,  Boche." 
The  sniper's  voice,  quick  and  incisive,  answered  the 
unseen  speaker.  "And  keep  your  hands  up,  Boche." 

With  his  eyes  unblinking,  with  his  body  so  motion- 
less that  he  hardly  seemed  to  breathe,  the  sniper  waited, 
his  rifle  still  cuddled  to  his  cheek.  Suddenly  a  figure 
half  rose,  half  shambled  out  of  the  ground  in  front. 
It  was  a  grey-clad  figure,  and  the  face  was  coated 
grey,  too.  Only  the  eyes — pig  eyes — roved  from  side 


148  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

to  side,  as  he  looked  for  the  sniper,  and  his  arms  and 
hands  were  raised  as  though  in  prayer.  And  then 

Over  the  desolate  flatness  a  vicious  crack  rang  out, 
and,  mingled  with  it,  the  sullen  phlop  of  a  bullet  which 
finds  its  mark  at  close  range.  It  did  not  echo;  there 
was  nothing  to  cause  an  echo.  It  was,  one  moment, 
the  next  it  was  not. 

With  a  grunt  of  satisfaction  the  man  lowered  his 
rifle  and  shook  himself. 

"It's  when  you  plead  and  pray  that  I  don't  like  you, 
cully,"  he  said  softly,  watching  the  quivering  carcase 
in  front.  "It's  the  only  time  you're  really  dangerous." 

You  see  it  is  the  game  of  no  mistakes,  and  the  Boche 
had  made  one.  He  had  failed  to  conceal  the  bomb  in 
his  hands — the  hands  that  were  raised  in  prayer. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  AWAKENING  OF  JOHN  WALTERS 

SHOULD  you  ever  wander  round  the  ranks  of  the 
North  Sussex  and  inspect  the  faces  of  the  men  in 
that  celebrated  battalion,  you  will  find  that  the  majority 
are  of  the  type  bovine.  They  are  a  magnificent,  if  a 
stolid  crowd,  and  their  fighting  record  is  second  to 
none ;  but  as  might  be  expected  in  a  regiment  recruited 
largely  from  those  who  have  been  born  and  bred  on 
the  land,  the  prevalent  expression  of  countenance  is 
wooden.  And  in  the  rear  rank  of  Number  Three 
Platoon — at  least  that  is  where  he  used  to  exist  beau- 
tifully— you  will  find  the  winner  of  the  competition. 

John  Walters — the  individual  to  whom  I  refer — was 
a  great  specimen  of  a  man  as  far  as  his  physical  de- 
velopment was  concerned ;  with  regard  to  his  brain  the 
less  said  the  better.  Moreover,  he  looked  it.  He 
viewed  life  philosophically,  if  he  viewed  it  at  all;  and 
the  only  thing  which  had  ever  been  known  to  stir 
him  into  the  slightest  semblance  of  excitement  was  the 
unexpected  addition  of  three  more  to  his  already  nu- 
merous family  circle.  But  the  strain  of  endeavouring 
to  work  out  the  increase  in  separation  allowance  that 
this  would  give  to  the  painstaking  Mrs.  John  proved 

149 


150  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

too  much  for  him,  and  with  only  the  briefest  of  strug- 
gles, he  relapsed  once  again  into  his  normal  torpor. 

My  story  is  of  the  awakening  which  came  to  our 
friend  on  a  certain  hot  day  in  May.  It  was  not  perma- 
nent— he  is  now  as  comatose  as  ever — but  while  it 
lasted  I  am  given  to  understand  it  was  quite  a  useful 
performance.  And  this  was  the  way  of  it,  on  that 
morning  in  early  summer. 

For  our  scenery  we  must  go  to  the  front-line 
trenches  in  a  certain  district  where  mine  craters  grew 
and  multiplied,  and  saps  crept  out,  turning  and  twist- 
ing between  the  thrown-up  mounds  of  earth  on  each 
side  of  them.  In  some  places  they  were  only  ten  yards 
apart — the  English  and  the  German  sapheads — in 
others  they  were  a  hundred.  But  over  the  whole  area 
there  brooded  that  delightful  sense  of  doubt  and  uncer- 
tainty which  goes  so  far  in  cheering  up  its  happy  oc- 
cupants. Complete  ignorance  as  to  where  the  next 
mine  is  going  off,  coupled  with  absolute  certainty  that 
it  will  go  up  somewhere,  and  that  as  far  as  you  can 
see  it's  about  your  turn  for  attention,  is  a  state  of  af- 
fairs at  which  only  the  most  blue-faced  pessimist  could 
cavil.  > 

And  quite  in  agreement  with  that  opinion  was  our 
friend  John  Walters  on  the  morning  of  the  day  in 
question.  At  least  it  appeared  so.  To  the  casual  ob- 
server the  worthy  John  was  quite  content  with  his 
position;  and  if  the  thought  ever  crossed  his  mind 
that  mines  frequently  went  up  in  unexpected  places, 
or  that  the  saphead  he  was  adorning  was  only  fifteen 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  JOHN  WALTERS     151 

yards  away  from  the  nearest  Hun  one,  it  certainly 
was  not  reflected  on  his  face. 

Far  from  it.  At  the  rise  of  the  curtain  he  was  lying 
sprawled  on  his  back,  and  staring  stolidly  upwards. 

He  had  been  similarly  occupied  for  the  last  hour, 
apathetically  watching  the  stars  pale  gradually  away, 
and  the  faint  glow  of  dawn  come  stealing  over  the 
sky.  Had  he  chosen  to  raise  himself  a  little  and  look 
towards  the  east  he  could  have  seen  the  sun  glistening 
like  a  gigantic  orange  ball,  glinting  through  the  thick 
white  ground  mist  that  covered  everything;  a  sun  that 
as  yet  had  no  heat  in  it.  But  John  Walters  did  not 
choose  to;  he  was  quite  comfortable,  even  if  a  little 
cold ;  and/  his  mind  was  blank  of  any  desire  to  be  so 
energetic.  Had  anyone  told  him  that  this  was  the 
dawn  of  the  most  eventful  day  of  his  life,  he  would 
have  contemplated  the  speaker  without  interest,  spat 
with  violence,  and  remarked  in  the  fulness  of  time, 
"'Oo  be  you  a-gettin'  at?" 

After  a  while  he  shifted  his  position  and  ceased  to 
gaze  at  the  deepening  blue  above  his  head.  He  felt  in 
each  pocket  in  turn  until  he  found  an  unpleasant-look- 
ing clay  pipe  whose  bowl  he  carefully  inspected.  Ap- 
parently satisfied  with  what  he  saw  he  produced  from 
another  pocket  a  piece  of  plug  tobacco;  and  hav- 
ing performed  the  mystic  rite  with  due  care  and 
solemnity  and  the  aid  of  a  blunt  knife,  he  thought- 
fully rubbed  the  tobacco  between  his  hands  and  stuffed 
his  pipe  with  a  square  and  dirty  forefinger.  Shortly 
after,  the  blue  spirals  of  smoke  ascending  in  the  still 


152  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

summer  air  proclaimed  that  John  was  having  his  ma- 
tutinal pipe. 

Occasionally,  when  he  thought  about  it,  his  eyes 
rested  on  a  little  piece  of  looking-glass  on  a  stick  set 
into  a  sand-bag  in  front  of  him — a  glass  tilted  at  an 
angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  which  reflected  the  ground 
behind  his  back.  It  was  the  periscope  at  the  end  of 
the  sap,  and  John  was  the  sentry  whose  duty  it  was  to 
look  through  it.  The  sap  facing  him  ran  back  to  the 
English  front  line.  He  could  see  the  men  asleep  where 
it  joined  the  trench  twenty  yards  away — the  others 
of  the  sap  party;  and  every  now  and  then^he  could  see 
men  going  backwards  and  forwards  in  the  fire-trench. 
He  settled  himself  more  comfortably,  and  again  the 
smoke  curled  upwards  in  the  motionless  air,  while  John 
ruminated  on  life. 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  blame  our  friend  for  thus  in- 
dulging in  a  little  quiet  introspection,  aided  and  soothed 
by  My  Lady  Nicotine.  The  occupation  has  much  to 
commend  it  at  suitable  times  and  in  suitable  places. 
Unfortunately,  the  head  of  a  sap  on  the  flank  of  a 
continuous  line  of  craters  at  five  o'clock  on  a  misty 
morning  fulfils  neither  of  these  conditions.  Further, 
there  seems  to  be  but  little  doubt  that  the  review  of 
his  life  was  of  such  surprising  dullness  that  the  worthy 
John's  head  fell  forward  three  or  four  times  with  the 
peculiar  movement  seen  so  often  amongst  those  who 
are  known  as  earnest  church-goers.  It  occurs  at  inter- 
vals throughout  the  sermon,  to  be  followed  instantly 
by  a  self-conscious  glance  round  to  see  if  anyone  no- 
ticed. Only  there  was  no  one  at  the  moment  to  watch 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  JOHN  WALTERS     153 

John,  when  his  head  first  dropped  slowly  forward  and 
his  pipe  fell  unheeded  to  the  ground — no  one,  that  is, 
of  whom  our  friend  had  any  cognisance.  But  had  his 
eyes  been  riveted  on  the  periscope  he  would  have  seen 
a  thing  which  would  have  galvanised  even  him  into 
some  semblance  of  activity. 

Slowly,  stealthily,  a  head  was  raised  from  behind 
a  great  hummock  of  chalky  earth,  a  head  surmounted 
by  the  round  cloth  cap  of  the  German.  Motionless  the 
man  stared  fixedly  at  the  little  periscope — John's  little 
periscope — then  as  if  worked  by  a  string  the  head  dis- 
appeared; and  when  our  hero,  waking  with  a  start, 
looked  at  the  periscope  himself  with  the  guilty  feeling 
that  he  had  actually  dozed  on  his  post,  once  again  it 
merely  reflected  the  desolate,  torn-up  ground.  But  the 
German  had  seen  John — and  John  had  not  seen  the 
German,  which  is  a  dangerous  state  of  affairs  for  soli- 
tary people  in  No  Man's  Land,  when  the  range  is  about 
five  yards. 

It  was  just  as  our  friend  grunted  and  leaned  for- 
ward to  retrieve  his  pipe  that  it  happened.  Suddenly 
the  saphead  seemed  to  swarm  with  men  who  leaped 
into  it  out  of  the  silent  mists;  a  bullet-headed  man 
seized  John  by  the  collar  and  yanked  him  out;  the 
rest  of  the  party  seized  the  Mills  bombs  lying  at  the 
saphead,  threw  them  at  the  sleeping  picket  near  the 
fire-trench,  and  followed  John's  captor.  In  four  sec- 
onds it  was  all  over;  the  bombs  burst  in  quick  succes- 
sion right  amongst  the  picket,  and  when  an  infuriated 
and  excited  officer  came  rushing  up  to  find  out  what 
the  devil  was  the  matter,  the  only  traces  that  remained 


154  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

were  two  dead  men,  a  lance-corporal  with  a  large 
hole  in  his  leg,  and — John  Walters's  unpleasant-look- 
ing clay  pipe. 

The  next  few  minutes  in  our  friend's  life  were 
crowded.  Stumbling,  half-running,  and  ever  conscious 
of  a  large  and  ugly  revolver  pointed  at  his  stomach, 
he  was  driven  over  the  uneven  ground  for  twenty 
yards  or  so,  and  then  without  warning  he  tripped  up 
and  fell  into  a  trench  which  he  found  in  front  of  him, 
followed  almost  immediately  by  four  panting  Huns, 
who  mopped  their  brows  and  grunted  in  a  strange 
tongue.  John  was  still  completely  bemused — the  whole 
thing  had  been  so  sudden — and  he  sat  for  a  while  star- 
ing at  the  Germans. 

"Gaw  lumme!"  he  remarked  at  last,  scratching  his 
head  in  perplexity,  "if  you  ain't  the  ruddy  'Uns.  This 
'ere's  a  fair  box-up — that's  wot  it  is." 

Almost  mechanically  his  right  hand  wandered  to 
his  jacket  pocket  in  search  of  his  pipe,  only  to  receive 
a  crashing  blow  on  the  elbow  from  a  revolver  butt. 

1  'Ere — wot  are  you  a-playing  at?"  His  tone  was 
aggrieved.  "Banged  if  I  ain't  left  my  pipe  in  that 
there  sap." 

"English  swine."  One  of  the  Germans  spoke  slowly, 
choosing  his  words  with  care.  "You  will  later  killed 
be." 

"Go  hon."  John  regarded  him  unmoved — he  was 
still  thinking  about  his  pipe.  "And  look  'ere,  guv'nor, 
I  ain't  'ad  no  breakfast." 

The  German  shook  his  head — our  friend's  accent 
was  beyond  him.  Then  seeming  to  realise  that  he  was 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  JOHN  WALTERS     155 

failing  to  hate  sufficiently,  he  brought  the  butt  of  his 
rifle  down  with  great  force  on  John's  foot,  and  drove 
him  along  the  sap  with  the  point  of  his  bayonet.  The 
procession  turned  along  the  fire-trench — once  again 
John  tripped  up;  something  hit  him  on  the  head,  he 
fek  himself  falling  down  a  timbered  shaft,  and  then 
— no  more. 

Now,  generally,  when  a  man  is  taken  prisoner  he 
is  removed  with  all  possible  speed  to  the  rear,  where 
he  can  be  examined  at  leisure  by  men  who  know  his  lan- 
guage. At  least,  it  is  so  in  the  case  of  German  pris- 
oners, and  it  is  to  be  assumed  it  is  so  in  the  case  of 
ours.  Therefore  our  friend  can  deem  himself  lucky — 
though  he  certainly  did  not  think  so  at  the  time — that 
the  usual  procedure  was  not  followed  in  his  case.  Had 
it  been,  this  more  or  less  veracious  narrative  would 
never  have  been  written;  and  our  worthy  John  would 
even  now  be  languishing  in  Ruhleben  or  some  equally 
choice  health  resort. 

He  was  roused  from  a  sort  of  semi-stupor  by  a 
heavy  kick  in  the  ribs;  and  for  a  moment  his  mind 
was  a  blank — more  even  than  usual.  He  was  painfully 
aware  that  his  head  was  very  sore,  and  his  stomach 
was  very  empty;  and  after  he  had  completely  grasped 
those  two  unpleasant  facts  he  became  further  and  even 
more  painfully  aware  that  a  stoutly-booted  German 
was  on  the  point  of  kicking  him  again.  He  scrambled 
groaning  to  his  feet ;  memories  of  the  saphead  had  re- 
turned. The  German  pointed  to  the  dug-out  shaft; 
and  when  John  again  began  remarking  on  the  little 


156  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

matter  of  breakfast  the  stoutly-booted  foot  struck  an- 
other portion  of  his  anatomy  even  more  heavily.  Our 
hero,  perceiving  that  the  subject  was  unpopular,  and 
encountering  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  the  doctrine 
of  force.majeure,  reluctantly  began  to  climb  the  shaft. 
A  bayonet  prodded  into  the  region  of  the  last  kick,  and 
having  let  forth  a  howl,  he  climbed  less  reluctantly. 

When  he  at  last  emerged  blinking  into  the  daylight 
of  the  trench,  he  looked,  as  is  the  way  with  those  who 
are  of  the  earth  earthy,  at  the  sun;  and  found  to  his 
surprise  that  it  was  late  in  the  afternoon. 

"Lumme,  guv'nor!" — he  turned  to  the  man  behind 
him — "I  ain't  'ad  nothin'  to  eat  all  day.  Not  since 
last  night,  I  ain't,  an'  then  a  perisher  dropped  me  bread 
in  the  trench  and  trod  on  it." 

His  guard  gazed  at  him  impassively  for  a  moment, 
and  then  kicked  him  quiet  again — in  the  stomach  this 
time — while  two  men  sitting  on  the  fire-step  laughed 
gutturally. 

"English  swine !"  One  of  them  mockingly  held  out 
a  piece  of  bread,  and  then  snatched  it  away  again,  as 
John  was  about  to  take  it. 

"Swine,  yer  ruddy  self,"  he  snarled,  his  slow  bu- 
colic temper  beginning  to  get  frayed. 

But  a  rifle-butt  in  the  ribs  and  a  bayonet  half  an 
inch  in  his  back  showed  him  the  unwisdom  of  such  a 
proceeding ;  and  he  stumbled  sullenly  along  the  trench. 
It  was  lightly  held,  but  everyone  whom  he  did  see 
seemed  to  take  a  delight  in  finding  some  hitherto  un- 
bruised  part  of  his  body  to  hit.  At  last,  half  sobbing 
with  exhaustion  and  pain,  he  was  propelled  forcibly 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  JOHN  WALTERS     157 

into  another  dug-out,  where  behind  a  table  lit  by  can- 
dles there  sat  a  man  studying  a  map.  He  felt  a  hand 
like  a  leg  of  mutton  seize  him  by  the  collar,  force  him 
upright,  and  then  hold  him  motionless.  After  a  few 
moments  the  man  by  the  table  looked  up. 

"What  is  the  number  of  the  battalion  you  belong 
to?"  He  spoke  in  perfect  English. 

"The  Sixth."  John's  spirits  rose  at  hearing  his  own 
language.  "An',  look  'ere,  guv'nor,  I  ain't  'ad  no •" 

"Silence,  you  dog."  The  officer  cried  out  some- 
thing in  German,  and  again  the  rifle-butt  jolted  into 
his  ribs  with  such  force  that  he  groaned.  "What  di- 
vision do  you  belong  to?" 

"  'Undred  and  fortieth."  Our  friend's  tone  was 
surly. 

"Say  'sir/  when  you  speak  to  me.  How  long  have 
you  been  in  this  part  of  the  line?" 

"I've  been  'ere  a  month,  guv'nor — I  mean,  sir." 

"Not  you,  dolt."  The  officer  stormed  at  him. 
"Your  division,  I  mean." 

"Strike  me  pink,  guv'nor,  I  dunno — I  dunno,  reely." 

The  wretched  John's  small  amount  of  brain  was 
rapidly  going.  Again  the  officer  said  something  in 
German,  and  again  an  agonising  jab  took  him  in  the 
ribs.  It  was  a  mistake,  that  last  jab,  if  only  the  of- 
ficer had  known  it.  Given  food  and  comparative  kind- 
ness, John,  out  of  pure  ignorance  of  the  harm  he  would 
be  doing,  might  have  racked  his  brains  and  said  a 
lot.  But  that  last  unnecessary  blow  made  him  sullen 
— and  when  a  man  of  that  type  gets  sullen  the  Sphinx- 
is  talkative  in  comparison.  For  half  an  hour  the  cross- 


158  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

examination  continued;  were  the  men's  spirits  good, 
did  they  think  they  were  winning,  what  was  the  food 
like?  And,  ultimately,  the  officer  told  him  in  a  furi- 
ous voice  that  even  for  an  Englishman  he'd  never  met 
such  a  mutton-headed  fool.  With  a  last  parting  kick 
he  was  hurled  into  a  corner  and  told  to  lie  there. 

Bruised  in  every  limb,  he  crouched  dazedly  where 
he  fell;  with  the  whole  of  the  slow,  fierce  anger  of 
the  countryman  raging  in  his  heart  against  the  officer 
who  still  sat  at  the  table.  Occasionally  men  came  in 
and  saluted,  but  no  word  was  spoken;  and  after  a 
while  John  noticed  that  he  seemed  to  be  writing  oc- 
casional sentences  on  pieces  of  paper.  Sometimes  an 
orderly  came  in  and  took  one  away;  more  often  he 
crumpled  them  up  and  threw  them  on  the  floor.  And 
then  he  suddenly  noticed  that  the  officer  had  a  peculiar 
thing  fitted  round  his  head,  with  two  discs  that  came 
over  his  ears. 

"Come  here."  The  terse  command  roused  John 
from  his  semi-dazed  stupor ;  he  realised  that  the  officer 
was  speaking  to  him.  "Put  these  over  your  ears, 
and  tell  me  if  you  recognise  who  is  speaking." 

He  handed  a  similar  pair  of  discs  over  the  table, 
which  the  Englishman  clumsily  put  on  his  head.  At 
first  he  could  hear  nothing  distinctly  but  only  a  con- 
fused medley  of  chirrups  and  squeaks.  Then  sud- 
denly quite  distinctly  there  came  a  clear,  metallic  voice : 
"Halloa!  is  that  the  Exchange?  Give  me  Don  Beer." 

"Gawd!"  said  John,  in  amazement.  "  'Oo  the  'ell 
is  it?" 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  JOHN  WALTERS     159 

"That's  what  I  want  to  find  out,"  snapped  the  Ger- 
man. "Do  you  know  the  voice  ?" 

"But  if  s  in  English."  Our  friend  still  gaped  fool- 
ishly at  this  strange  phenomenon. 

"Do  you  know  who  it  is,  you  dunderheaded  idiot?" 
howled  the  officer,  in  a  fury. 

"Lumme ;  I  dunno  who  it  is.  'Ow  should  I  ?"  John 
was  aggrieved — righteously  aggrieved.  "Look  out; 
the  perisher's  talking  again." 

"Is  that  you,  Don  Beer?"  The  thin  voice  came 
once  again  clearly  to  John.  "Oh!  is  that  you,  Sally? 
Heard  anything  more  about  that  man  of  yours  they 
got  this  morning?"  John  noticed  the  officer  was  writ- 
ing. 

"Not  a  word,  old  dear.  He  was  the  world's  most 
monumental  idiot,  so  I  wish  'em  joy  of  him."  Then 
once  again  the  squeak  chorus  drowned  everything  else. 

But  John  had  heard  enough.  Regardless  of  the 
somewhat  unflattering  description  of  himself,  unmind- 
ful of  the  officer's  short  laugh,  he  stared  with  amaze- 
ment at  the  wall  of  the  dug-out.  For  he  had  recog- 
nised that  last  voice. 

"Who  was  that  ?  D'you  know  ?"  The  officer  looked 
at  John  sharply. 

"Well,  I'm  danged!"  he  muttered.  "That  last  were 
old  Sally — the  old  man." 

"What  old  man,  you  fool?" 

"Why,  our  colonel,  guv'nor.  There  ain't  more'n 
one  old  man." 

"Oh!"  The  officer  made  a  note.  "So  that  was  the 
colonel  of  your  battalion,  was  it?" 


160  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

"It  wor,  guv'nor — sir.  An'  if  I  might  make  so  bold, 
sir,  seeing  as  'ow  I  'aven't  'ad  any  food  like  since 
last  night " 

"Silence,  you  worm."  The  officer  got  up,  and  struck 
him  in  the  mouth.  "We  don't  give  food  to  English- 
men. Go  back  to  your  kennel.  I  may  want  you 
again." 

He  pointed  to  the  corner,  and  resumed  his  seat,  with 
the  receivers  of  the  listening  apparatus  over  his  ears 
once  more.  But  John  Walters  was  not  interested — - 
the  entire  performance  left  him  cold.  He  wanted  food, 
he  wanted  drink,  and  what  German  prisoners  he'd 
seen  had  not  wanted  in  vain.  With  a  fierce  smoulder- 
ing rage  in  his  heart,  he  lay  hunched  up,  and  his  eyes 
never  left  the  man  at  the  table. 

A  far  quicker-witted  specimen  than  our  friend  might 
well  have  been  excused  for  feeling  a  little  dazed  by 
the  position  in  which  he  found  himself.  To  be  suddenly 
torn  from  the  peaceful  monotony  of  ordinary  trench 
life;  to  be  removed  forcibly  from  his  friends,  deprived 
of  his  breakfast  and  of  his  pipe;  to  be  stunned  by 
a  blow  on  the  head  and  on  recovering  consciousness 
to  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing  his  colonel  describe 
him  as  a  most  monumental  idiot  does  not  happen  to 
everyone. 

To  the  unfortunate  John,  still  partially  dazed  and 
therefore  slower  on  the  uptake  than  ever,  the  situation 
was  beyond  solution.  The  only  dominant  thoughts 
which  filled  his  mind  were  that  he  was  hungry,  and 
that  he  hated  the  man  at  the  table.  Every  now  and 
then  he  fell  into  a  kind  of  stupor;  only  to  come  to 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  JOHN  WALTERS     161 

again  with  a  start,  and  see  the  same  officer,  with  the 
same  arrangement  over  his  head,  writing — writing. 
He  was  always  writing,  it  seemed  to  John,  and  the 
constant  stream  of  orderlies  annoyed  him. 

God !  how  he  hated  that  man.  Lying  in  the  corner, 
he  watched  him  vindictively  with  his  fists  clenched  and 
the  veins  standing  out  on  his  neck;  then  everything 
would  go  blurred  again — his  head  would  fall  for- 
ward, and  he  would  lie  inert,  like  a  log,  practically 
unconscious.  Men  were  moving ;  the  officer  was  writ- 
ing; he  could  still  realise  his  surroundings  dimly,  but 
only  with  the  realisation  of  light-headedness.  At  one 
time  the  dug-out  seemed  to  be  the  taproom  of  the  One 
Ton — a  hostelry  largely  patronised  by  our  friend  in 
the  days  of  peace;  while  the  officer  who  wrote  took 
unto  himself  the  guise  of  the  proud  owner.  At  an- 
other he  thought  he  was  in  the  battalion  orderly-room 
and  that  the  man  behind  the  table  was  his  C.O.  He 
tried  to  remember  what  his  offence  was,  and  why  he 
was  lying  down,  and  why  the  escort  was  moving  about 
instead  of  standing  beside  him.  Then  his  brain  cleared 
again  and  he  remembered. 

The  exact  act  which  cleared  his  senses  was  yet  a  fur- 
ther application  of  the  boot  by  one  of  the  dimly-mov- 
ing figures.  With  a  grunt  John  sat  up  and  found  beside 
him  a  hunk  of  unappetising-looking  brown  bread  and 
a  mug  of  water. 

"Eat  that  up."  The  officer  was  speaking.  "Then 
I  shall  want  you  again — so  be  quick/' 

John  needed  no  second  order.  The  fact  that  the 
bread  was  mouldly  troubled  him  not  at  all;  a  hungry 


162  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

man  looks  not  a  gift  loaf  in  the  interstices.  With  a 
rapidity  which  would  hardly  be  commended  in  a 
brochure  on  etiquette,  he  fell  upon  that  hunk  of  bread, 
and  having  demolished  it  he  felt  better.  It  was  just 
as  he  was  washing  down  the  last  crumb  with  the  last 
drop  of  water  that  he  saw  the  officer  at  the  table  spring 
to  his  feet,  while  the  two  orderlies  beside  him  also 
straightened  up  and  stood  to  attention.  He  looked 
round  to  find  the  reason  of  the  commotion,  and  found 
another  officer  standing  near  him  regarding  him  malev- 
olently. Somewhat  refreshed  by  his  meal,  the  worthy 
John  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  disliked  the  new 
arrival's  face  almost  as  much  as  his  original  enemy's, 
and  returned  the  look  with  all  the  interest  he  was  ca- 
pable of  displaying.  It  was  not  a  judicious  thing  to 
do,  but  our  friend  was  not  a  past-master  in  the  higher 
forms  of  tact.  Once  again  the  dug-out  became  ani- 
mated. Hitherto  untouched  areas  of  his  anatomy  re- 
ceived attention  from  two  scandalised  orderlies,  and 
the  ruffled  dignity  of  the  new-comer — a  bull-necked 
man  of  unprepossessing  aspect — was  soothed.  It  was 
only  John  Walters's  fury  that  increased  until  it  al- 
most choked  him;  but  then  to  the  other  occupants  of 
the  dug-out  John  Walters's  fury  was  a  thing  of  no  ac- 
count. And  but  for  the  next  little  turn  in  the  wheel 
of  fate,  their  indifference  was  quite  justifiable.  He 
was  unarmed:  they  were  not.  And  .no  man,  even 
though  he  possess  the  strength  of  ten,  is  much  use 
when  an  ounce  of  lead  goes  in  at  his  chest  and  out 
at  his  back. 

Completely  disregarding  the  sullen  prisoner,  who 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  JOHN  WALTERS     165 

stood  breathing  a  little  heavily  just  in  front  of  an 
armed  orderly,  the  two  officers  started  an  animated 
conversation.  John,  it  is  perhaps  unnecessary  to  state, 
understood  not  one  word;  his  school  curriculum  had 
not  included  German.  Even  had  they  spoken  in  Eng- 
lish it  is  doubtful  if  their  remarks  would  have  con- 
veyed much  to  him ;  though  they  furnished  the  reason 
of  his  temporary  retention  in  his  present  abode. 

"Any  success?"  The  new-comer  pointed  to  the  re- 
ceiver-discs lying  on  the  table. 

"Yes."  The  other  officer  held  out  one  of  the  sets. 
"Try  them  on,  and  see  what  you  think." 

"Have  you  identified  any  of  the  speakers?" 

The  bull-necked  man  was  adjusting  his  instrument. 

"Only  the  colonel  of  the  North  Sussex  for  certain. 
That  unmitigated  fool" — he  glared  at  John,  who 
scowled  sullenly  back — "is  too  much  of  a  fool  to  tell 
one  anything.  He  is  the  thing  we  got  this  morning 
asleep  in  a  sap." 

The  other  nodded,  listening  intently,  and  for  a  while 
silence  reigned  in  the  dug-out. 

To  John  the  whole  affair  was  inexplicable ;  but  then 
a  new  and  complicated  listening  apparatus  might  have 
been  expected  to  be  a  bit  above  his  form.  He  heard 
a  salvo  of  shells  come  screeching  past  the  entrance 
shaft,  and  realised  with  a  momentary  interest  that  they 
sounded  much  the  same  when  they  were  English  shells 
as  they  did  when  they  were  German.  Then  some- 
thing hit  the  ground  just  outside  with  a  thud,  a  some- 
thing which  he  diagnosed  correctly  as  a  trench  mortar 
bomb,  and  a  second  afterwards  it  exploded  with  a  roar 


164  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

which  deafened  him,  while  a  mass  of  dirt  and  lumps 
of  chalk  rained  down  the  shaft. 

The  occupants  of  the  dug-out  betrayed  no  excite- 
ment; only  John  longed,  with  an  incoherent  longing, 
that  another  sixty-pounder  would  roll  down  the  shaft 
next  time  before  it  exploded.  He  felt  he  would  cheer- 
fully die,  if  only  those  two  accursed  officers  died  at  the 
same  time. 

Then  came  another  salvo  of  shells  and  yet  another ; 
while  in  rapid  succession  the  Stokes  and  Medium 
trench  mortars  came  crumping  down. 

"A  bit  hactive  to-night,"  thought  John,  listening 
with  undisguised  interest  to  the  bursts  outside.  After 
all  they  were  his  bursts;  he  had  every  right  to  feel  a 
fatherly  pleasure  in  this  strafing  of  the  accursed  Hun, 
even  though  his  present  position  as  one  of  them  left 
much  to  be  desired.  A  gentle  smile  of  toleration  spread 
over  his  face,  the  smile  of  the  proud  proprietor  ex- 
hibiting his  wares  to  an  unworthy  audience — and  he 
glanced  at  the  two  officers.  He  noticed  they  were 
looking  inquiringly  at  one  another,  as  if  debating  in 
their  minds  whether  it  was  an  ordinary  strafe  or 
whether 

Suddenly  the  firing*  stopped,  only  to  break  out  again 
as  if  by  clockwork,  a  little  farther  away;  and  with  that 
sudden  change  of  target  any  doubts  they  had  enter- 
tained as  to  the  nature  of  the  entertainment  disap- 
peared. They  were  being  raided  and  they  knew  it ;  and 
any  further  doubts  they  may  have  still  had  on  the  mat- 
ter were  dispelled  by  a  sudden  shouting  in  the  trench 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  JOHN  WALTERS     165 

above  them,  coupled  with  the  sharp  cracks  of  bursting 
bombs. 

To  John  the  situation  was  still  a  little  obscure, 
His  brain  creaked  round  sufficiently  to  enable  him  to 
realise  that  something  had  occurred  to  break  up  the 
happy  meeting  and  cause  feverish  activity  on  the  part 
of  his  captors.  Various  strange  instruments  were  be- 
ing hurriedly  stowed  away  in  a  corner  of  the  dug-out 
to  the  accompaniment  of  much  guttural  language; 
but  his  brain  was  still  trying  to  grasp  what  had  hap- 
pened when  he  saw  a  thing  which  quickened  his  move- 
ments. Completely  forgotten  in  the  general  rush  he 
stood  by  the  table,  while  the  others  darted  backwards 
and  forwards  past  him,  carrying  the  instruments ;  and 
then  suddenly  the  quickener  arrived.  Rolling  down  the 
steps  there  came  a  little  black  egg-shaped  ball,  which 
John  recognised  quicker  than  he  had  ever  recognised 
anything  before.  It  was  a  Mills  bomb,  and  the  pin  was 
out.  He  was  no  bombing  expert,  but  the  habits  of  a 
Mills  are  known  to  most  people  who  live  with  the 
breed.  Four  seconds — and  then  a  most  unpleasing 
explosion,  especially  when  in  a  confined  space  like  a 
dug-out. 

So  John  acted.  With  a  dispassionate  grunt,  he 
seized  one  of  the  orderlies  who  was  brushing  past  him 
at  the  moment,  all  unmindful  of  the  danger;  and  hav- 
ing picked  him  off  the  ground  as  if  he  were  a  baby 
he  deposited  him  on  the  bomb,  just  in  time.  Barely 
had  the  dazed  Hun  alighted  gently  on  the  bomb  when 
the  bomb  went  off.  So  did  the  Hun,  and  the  fun  be- 
gan. John's  playful  action  had — amongst  other  good 


166  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

effects — prevented  the  lights  from  being  blown  out; 
and  so  at  the  trifling  cost  of  one  orderly  he  was  in  what 
is  known  as  a  strategically  sound  position.  Moreover, 
he  was  in  the  most  dreadful  rage  which  had  ever 
shaken  his  torpid  disposition.  Stunned  by  the  sudden 
shock  of  the  unexpected  bomb  and  paralysed  for  the 
moment  by  the  sight  of  the  shattered  man,  the  three 
Germans  gazed  foolishly  at  John  Walters.  And  in 
that  moment  he  went  in  at  them.  The  second  orderly 
fell  like  a  stone  with  a  blow  on  the  point  of  the  jaw 
which  would  have  felled  an  ox;  and  only  the  two 
officers  were  left. 

With  a  howl  of  rage  the  bull-necked  officer  rushed 
at  him,  and  John  grinned  gently.  He  had  no  particu- 
lar animosity  against  him :  it  was  the  other  one  he  was 
after.  So  he  hit  him — once — and  the  bull-necked  one 
slept,  even  like  a  little  child. 

Then  for  a  moment  or  two  John  Walters  stood  still 
and  contemplated  the  last  occupant.  Up  above  were 
his  own  pals,  while  down  below  his  tormentor  faced 
him  alone.  And  they  were  on  equal  terms :  they  were 
both  unarmed. 

With  a  grunt  of  rage  John  caught  him  by  the  throat 
and  shook  him  like  a  rat.  All  the  fury  pent  up  for 
so  many  hours  came  out  as  he  bashed  at  his  face  with 
his  fist.  "No  food,  you  dirty  swine!"  he  muttered — 
bash,  bash.  "Kicked  in  me  stummick,  'it  in  me  mouth. 
I'll  show  yer — you  perishin'  'Un!  Come  on  upstairs 
and  see  the  fun — come  on,  yer  sausage-eating  'og !" 

Bumping,  heaving,  pulling,  he  dragged  the  semi- 
conscious German  up  the  shaft  and  with  a  mighty 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  JOHN  WALTERS     167 

effort  heaved  him  into  the  trench.  There  was  no  one 
in  sight,  though  all  around  him  bombs  were  going  off 
— while  away  on  each  flank  and  behind  the  trench  a 
ceaseless  series  of  explosions  merged  into  one  continu- 
ous blast.  John  grunted  again,  and  heaved  the  officer 
on  to  the  parapet. 

"Back  'ome  with  me  this  time,  me  beauty !  Kicked 
in  the  stummick,  no  food  since  last  night,  and  then 
a  perisher  trod  on  it.  Gaw  lumme,  wot  a  life!  Come 
on,  yer  swine !"  and  John  got  in  the  first  real  kick  in  the 
ribs  with  his  boot.  "Hup  and  hover.  Gawd ! — wot' s 
that?" 

Clear  above  the  din  there  came  from  the  British 
lines  a  discordant  braying,  which  rose  and  fell  like 
the  wailing  of  a  giant  animal.  It  was  the  recall  signal 
to  the  raiders. 

"  'Op  it,  yer  bla'guard,  'op  it  'ard!"  The  bombing 
had  died  away,  though  the  guns  and  mortars  still 
roared.  "In  front  of  me,  Mr.  'Un — in  front  of  me. 
Some  of  our  boys  be  light  on  the  trigger." 

With  the  German  firmly  clasped  to  his  chest  the 
worthy  John  rushed  him  across  No  Man's  Land.  "It's 
Walters — John  Walters,"  he  bawled  at  the  top  of  his 
voice — "and  a  'Un."  With  a  last  final  kick  he  sent 
him  flying  over  the  top  of  the  parapet  and  fell  in 
after  him,  breathing  hard. 

"What  the  devil?"  An  officer  in  the  trench  got  up 
and  gazed  at  the  pair  in  amazement.  "Who  the  hell 
are  you?" 

"John  Walters,  sir — and  a  'Un."    He  scratched  his 


168  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

head  and  mechanically  kicked  the  recumbent  German. 
"Get  up,  yer  swine,  and  speak  to  the  officer!" 

"Are  you  the  fellow  who  was  taken  prisoner  this 
morning?" 

"Yes,  sir,  that's  me."  He  gazed  vindictively  at 
his  enemy.  "An'  not  a  bit  of  food  since  last  night, 
and  then  some  perisher  trod  on  it.  Gaw  lumme,  wot 
a  life!  Lucky  as  'ow  the  boys  come  over,  sir,  or  I 
wouldn't  'ave  'ad  none  at  all — not  with  that  there 
swine." 

"Great  Scott!"  murmured  the  officer.  This  sudden 
appearance  of  the  lost  sheep  temporarily  unnerved  him. 

Not  so  John  Walters.  Having  administered  a  final 
kick  to  the  groaning  Hun,  he  slouched  moodily  off 
into  the  night.  His  rage  had  abated — there  only  re- 
mained one  thing  to  do  before  food.  Absolutely  un- 
perturbed by  various  red  and  green  lights  which  were 
now  going  up  continuously  from  the  German  trenches 
as  a  signal  for  help,  quite  unmindful  of  the  heavy 
shelling  which  had  now  started  on  our  own  trenches, 
our  friend  strode  on  to  his  appointed  goal. 
"Ave  yer  seen  it  lying  about,  mate?" 

An  astonished  sentry  peering  into  the  darkness 
swung  round  sharply  at  the  sudden  voice  behind  him. 

"Seen  wot?"  he  demanded,  crustily.  "Wot  are  yer 
nosing  abaht  there  for,  an  'oo  are  yer,  anyway?" 

"John  Walters,  mate — John  Walters,  C  Company." 

"Lumme,  but  you  was  took  prisoner  this  morning 
by  the  'Uns!" 

"I  knows  it — I  knows  all  that.  What  I  wants 
to  know  is — where' s  my  ruddy  pipe  wot  I  dropped? 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  JOHN  WALTERS     169 

Not  a  bit  o'  food  since  last  night,  and  then  some 
perisher  trod  on  it.  And  now" — he  was  delving  in 
the  mud  at  the  bottom  of  the  sap — "danged  if  some 
other  plurry  perisher  ain't  been  and  gone  and  trod  on 
this  too!"  By  the  light  of  a  flare  he  ruefully  ex- 
amined two  bits  of  a  broken  clay  pipe.  "Gaw  lumme, 
wot  a  life!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SEASICK   COW 

GOOD  evening,  Jonah!  And  how  is  life,  old 
top?"  The  man  I  was  dining  with  greeted  an 
officer  passing  our  table  with  a  cheery  smile.  "Come 
and  tear  a  cutlet  with  us." 

The  other  paused  and  regarded  the  speaker  coldly. 
"James,"  he  remarked,  "you  forget  yourself.  I  can 
endure  your  face  in  the  club  at  Poperinghe,  I  can  even 
dally  awhile  with  you  in  the  boot  shop  at  Bethune;  but 
to  dine  with  you  in  London  and  listen  to  your  port- 
laden  views  of  life  is  a  thing  which  I  will  not  do.  My 
time  is  too  short,  James,  to  waste  on  such  as  you." 

"He  has  affected  that  style  of  conversation,"  re- 
marked James,  sadly,  to  no  one  in  particular,  "ever 
since  he  came  under  the  influence  of  love.  Is  she  here 
to-night,  Jonah,  this  unfortunate  girl  of  whom  you 
so  often  babble  when  you  are  in  your  cups?" 

"For  what  other  reason  would  I  have  put  on  my 
new  thirty-shilling  suiting?  Of  course,  she's  here,  old 
boy ;  look — there  she  is  coming  down  the  steps.  Some 
girl,  Jimmy — what?" 

He  moved  away  to  meet  her,  and  with  a  nod  and  a 
grin  to  us  came  back  past  our  table  on  the  way  to  his 

170 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SEASICK  COW    171 

own.  As  he  said,  she  was  "some"  girl,  and  our  eyes 
followed  them  both  as  they  threaded  their  way  through 
the  diners. 

"Who's  your  pal,  James  ?"  I  asked  him,  when  the 
girl  had  disappeared  round  the  corner.  "His  views  on 
the  suitable  companionship  at  face-feeding  times  com- 
mend themselves  to  me  at  first  sight." 

He  ignored  the  implication,  and  concentrated  on 
the  tournedos  for  awhile.  Then  suddenly  he  leaned 
back  in  his  chair,  stuffed  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and 
contemplated  me  benignly. 

"Peter,"  he  remarked,  "you  are  a  lucky  man.  I  am 
going  to  tell  you  a  story." 

"Great  Scott!"  I  exclaimed;  "not  that  long  one 
about  the  girl  and  the  lodging-house?  You  told  me 
that  last  time  I  saw  you,  and  got  it  wrong." 

"What  a  mind  you  have,  Peter;  what  a  mind.  No, 
I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  the  story  of  the  girl  and  the 
lodging-house,  brilliantly  witty  though  it  is.  I  am 
going  to  tell  you  a  story — a  true  story — about  a 
Tank." 

"Human  or  otherwise,"  I  remarked,  pessimistically. 

James  looked  at  me  in  pained  surprise.  "I  am  sorry 
to  disappoint  you :  but — otherwise.  Waiter — another 
bottle  of  champagne;  the  gentleman's  thoughts  have 
liquified  as  usual." 

He  thoughtfully  drained  his  own  glass  and  lit  a 
cigarette.  "I  have  no  objection  to  your  eating  while  I 
smoke,"  he  remarked,  kindly ;  "and  a  cigarette  enables 
me  to  collect  my  thoughts  and  present  to  you  my 


172  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

story  in  that  well-known  style  on  which  my  fame  as 
a  raconteur  is  largely  based." 

"Well,  just  write  down  the  point  before  you  forget 
it,  or " 

"Once  upon  a  time,  Peter,"  he  commenced,  in  a 
withering  tone,  "the  Belgians  made  Ypres,  and  the 
Lord  made  the  country  around  it.  By  Jove!  there's 
little  Kitty  Dray  ton.  I  must  go  and  speak  to  her  after- 
wards." 

"Yes,  I'd  tell  her  of  your  monumental  discovery 
if  I  were  you.  Your  reputation  as  a  conversationalist 
will  be  made  for  life." 

After  a  depressing  interlude,  during  which  he  failed 
signally  to  catch  the  lady's  eye,  he  again  turned  his 
attention  to  me. 

"At  a  later  period  the  Hun  intervened.  I  believe 
you  saw  much  of  his  earlier  endeavours,  Peter,  around 
that  delectable  spot?" 

"I  did;  moreover,  I  have  since  revisited  the  haunts 
of  my  youth.  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  James,  that 
I  had  a  devilish  near  squeak " 

"And  if  I'm  not  too  bored  I  might  possibly  listen 
— later,  but  not  now;  at  present,  it's  my  story,  and 
it's  very  rude  to  interrupt.  You  may  say  yes  or  no, 
Peter,  if  your  feelings  overcome  you;  otherwise,  kindly 
restrain  yourself." 

He  once  again  endeavoured  to  catch  the  wandering 
optic  of  fair  Kate,  with  the  same  result  as  before;  a 
bad  starter  at  any  time  is  James,  but  he  frequently 
finishes  well. 

"The  story  which  I  am  going  to  tell  you  concerns 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SEASICK  COW     173 

Wipers,  in  that  it  took  place  there  or  thereabouts. 
North-east  of  it,  round  about  that  cheerful  little  inland 
health  resort,  St.  Julian.  A  nasty  spot,  Peter,  a  nasty 
spot." 

"Personally,  I  confined  myself  principally  to 
Hooge,"  I  murmured.  "But  I  accept  your  words 
without  prejudice." 

"So  much  for  the  locality.  The  conditions  need 
not  detain  us.  Just  one  enormous  morass  of  filth 
and  mud  and  water  and  shell-hole;  just  the  ordinary 
sort  of  country  only  a  bit  worse,  and  everything  as 
damnable  as  it  could  be.  Ugh,  horrible !  Let  us  come 
to  pleasant  subjects — to  wit,  the  Seasick  Cow — the 
principal  actor  in  the  drama. 

"The  Seasick  Cow,"  he  silenced  my  frivolous  in- 
terruption with  a  glance,  "was,  and  for  all  I  know  is 
at  the  present  moment,  a  Tank.  On  the  other  hand, 
it  may  quite  possibly  be  scrap-iron,  as  the  position 
in  which  it  was  last  seen  goes  into  the  air  twice  hourly. 
That,  however,  is  immaterial;  what  I  want  to  tell 
you  about  is  her  last  voyage,  which  was  by  way  of 
being  a  bit  of  an  epic. 

"I  suppose  you've  heard  of  the  new  Hun  pill-boxes. 
They  are  nasty  contrivances  made  of  reinforced  con- 
crete, and  are  dotted  promiscuous-like  all  over  their 
front.  When  hit  by  a  shell  the  entire  performance 
moves  back  a  little  farther,  and  the  garrison,  having 
sorted  the  sausage  out  of  the  mix-up,  resume  their 
interrupted  breakfast  two  or  three  feet  nearer  Ber- 
lin. It  was  up  against  a  little  nest  of  these  that  the 
Powers  that  Be  decided  to  do  a  bit  of  a  strafe.  They 


174  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

told  off  the  Feet  who  were  to  be  the  proud  and  de- 
lighted performers,  and  they  gave  'em  the  Seasick  Cow 
to  help  'em.  Then  they  gave  them  their  blessing,  and 
retired  to  await  developments. 

"Now  the  Cow  was  apparently  the  Tank  of  the  Sec- 
tion. The  whole  crush  are  most  inordinately  proud 
of  their  machines,  and  spend  hours  in  titivating  up 
the  interior;  when  I  went  inside  the  Cow  once,  her 
detachment  had  fairly  spread  themselves.  The  engine 
shone  till  you  could  see  your  face  in  it,  and  a  Kirchner 
picture  over  the  driver's  head  helped  him  to  keep  his 
eyes  in  the  boat.  Parts  of  her  had  been  painted  blue 
with  a  delicate  motif  of  purple,  and  one  only  wanted 
a  hat-track  and  a  bath  in  the  corner  to  have  the  ideal 
week-end  cottage." 

"Your  picture,"  I  murmured,  "is  most  explicit" 

"All  my  pictures  always  are."  James  frowned  ab- 
sently at  a  passing  waiter.  "Have  you  ever  been  in- 
side a  Tank,  Peter?" 

"Once,"  I  answered,  reminiscently,  "after  a  heavy 
lunch.  The  Army  Council  stood  outside  and  ap- 
plauded, whilst  I " 

"Army  Council!"  James  interrupted  me  in  his 
most  withering  tone.  "Then  it  was  in  England  you 
did  the  deed?" 

"Where  else,"  I  returned,  "would  you  expect  to 

find  the ?  But,  hush!  We  are  observed.  Yes, 

it  was  in  England — many  moons  ago,  when  I  was  on 
leave,  that " 

"I  am  quite  certain  the  story  is  immoral,  so  I  won't 
trouble  you  any  more.  All  I  wanted  to  know  before 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SEASICK  COW     175 

I  really  began  was  if  you  knew  what  the  inside  of  a 
Tank  was  like.  Apparently  you  do,  so  I  will  continue. 
A  little  '65  brandy,  waiter,  and  a  cigar." 

James  settled  himself  comfortably  in  his  chair,  and 
inspected  his  liqueur  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur. 
"One  can't  get  it  in  France,  you  know,  this  stuff.  I 
never  can  make  out  why  not.  However,  Peter — hav- 
ing got  past  your  digressions,  let  us  proceed. 

"The  line,  at  the  particular  spot  where  this  drama 
of  the  Seasick  Cow  was  enacted,  was  in  a  state  of 
flux.  You  know  the  sort  of  thing  I  mean:  no  man 
knows  what  his  next-door  neighbour  doeth,  but  is 
merely  the  proud  possessor  of  a  shell-hole,  water- 
logged, mark  one.  In  the  course  of  a  previous  opera- 
tion we  had  captured  the  Green  line,  or  the  Blue 
line,  or  some  bally  line — I  forget  which :  and  our  out- 
posts had  consolidated  themselves — I  don't  think — in 
the  unprepossessing  piece  of  country  in  front.  Which 
merely  meant  that  A  Company — much  against  its  will 
— sat  in  slush  and  great  peril  one  hundred  and  fifty 
yards  nearer  the  Hun  than  anyone  else.  Now  for  the 
Hun. 

"Away  in  front,  three  or  four  hundred  yards  on  A 
Company's  right,  there  rose  a  little  mound,  and  beyond 
the  mound,  which  was  really  the  end  of  a  sort  of  small 
spur,  was  a  small  valley.  At  the  other  side  of  the  val- 
ley was  another  little  hillock  with  the  remnants  of  a 
farm  on  top.  .  .  .  All  right,  Adolphus :  my  friend  will 
pay  for  any  damage  I  do  to  the  table-cloth." 

James  shoved  away  a  waiter,  who  was  raising  pro- 
testing hands  to  Heaven  at  the  deep  gouges  in  the 


176  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

cloth,  by  means  of  which  my  friend  was  endeavouring 
to  show  me  the  run  of  the  ground. 

"A  valley  crossing  your  front,"  I  repeated,  "screened 
from  view  by  a  small  spur.  And  the  principle  of  de- 
fensive war  is  the  counter-attack." 

"Clever  boy !"  James  beamed  upon  me.  "Why  you 
aren't  Commander-in-Chief  has  always  been  one  of 
life's  little  mysteries  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.  But 
there  was  something  else,  Peter:  between  the  little 
spur  and  the  hillock  with  the  farm-house,  and  right 
at  the  very  entrance  to  the  valley,  were  a  couple  of 
pill-boxes.  Do  you  take  the  situation?" 

"With  exactitude,"  I  answered.    "Process." 

"This  was  the  little  bundle  of  fun  which  the  Sea- 
sick Cow  in  company  with  the  Feet  were  detailed  to 
attack,  hold,  and  consolidate." 

"The  answer,"  I  remarked,  gently,  "being  a  lemon. 
I  always  like  to  hear  of  these  things  after  they've  hap- 
pened, and  the  band  is  playing,  and  the  women  are 
beautiful.  If  that  wretched  girl  does  happen  to  see 
you  looking  like  that  by  any  chance,  and  complains 
to  the  man  with  her,  I  will  not  be  your  second.  My 
sympathies  are  all  with  her." 

James  came-to  from  his  third  frenzied  endeavour 
on  the  unconscious  Kitty  and  looked  hurt. 

"If  there  is  one  thing  I  loathe,"  he  said,  coldly,  "it's 
jealousy.  However,"  he  went  on  after  a  moment, 
"that  was  not  all  they  were  told  to  do.  It  was  thought 
that  fresh  vistas  would  open  before  their  delighted 
gaze,  once  they  were  the  proud  possessors  of  that  val- 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SEASICK  COW     177 

ley,  and  further  developments  were  left  to  the  initia- 
tive of  all  concerned." 

"Which  makes  it  two  lemons."  I  looked  at  James 
sternly.  "Cut  the  tackle,  my  lad,  and  get  to  the  'osses. 
It's  closing  time  here  for  all  officers  shortly,  and  we 
have  foolishly  forgotten  to  come  in  mufti.  No  chance 
of  pretending  we're  on  any  important  war-work." 

"True,  Peter;  true.  At  times  you're  quite  bright. 
I  will  get  down  to  it.  At  3.30  ak  emma  on  a  murky 
morning  in  August,  la  belle  vache  sogged  wearily  for- 
ward. She  ploughed  through  shell-holes,  and  she 
squattered  over  mud,  and  generally  behaved  in  the 
manner  of  all  Tanks.  She  passed  through  A  Com- 
pany, and  A  Company  waved  her  on  her  way  rejoic- 
ing— they  were  not  the  party  detailed  to  go  with  her; 
and  in  a  few  minutes  she  had  disappeared  from  view 
in  front.  Once  or  twice  her  machine-guns  pattered 
out  their  joyful  note,  as  they  discovered  a  wily  Boche 
lurking  in  a  shell-hole;  a  bomb  or  two  burst  viciously 
in  the  dawn,  but  the  old  Cow  sogged  gently  on.  Then 
some  Feet  came  through  A  Company — a  party  of  the 
force  detailed  to  act  with  the  Tank,  and  from  then  on 
the  usual  confusion  prevailed.  Moreover,  Peter,  my 
story  is  now  largely  hearsay — though  from  much  evi- 
dence, I  can  guarantee  its  truth.  I  think  I  will  give 
it  to  you  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  crew  of  the 
Cow." 

"Just  on  time,  gentlemen.  Any  more  liqueurs  ?"  A 
solicitous  waiter  hovered  around  our  table. 

"Of  course,"  I  answered.  "Make  them  double  ones. 
Knowing  this  officer,  I'm  afraid  it  may  be  a  long  busi- 


178  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

ness.  Now,  James,  as  Tank  Commander-— carry  on." 
"The  first  thing  the  Cow  encountered,  bar  a  passing 
machine-gunner  or  two,  whom  they  despatched  rapidly 
to  a  better,  or,  at  any  rate,  less  muddy  world,  was  a 
pill-box.  That  was  the  one  on  the  near  side  of  the  val- 
ley just  beyond  the  first  spur.  Sport  poor.  The  garri- 
son ran  like  hell,  and  the  light  was  too  bad  for  good 
shooting.  Only  one  man  was  caught  for  certain,  and 
he  slipped  in  endeavouring  to  negotiate  a  shell-hole. 
He  slipped,  as  I  said,  and  so  did  the  Cow  on  top  of 
him.  A  sticky  end."  James  meditatively  sipped  his 
brandy:  and  we  pondered. 

"Then  the  Cow  passed  on.  The  arrangement  was 
that  she  should  make  good  the  pill-boxes,  and  should 
then  advance  up  the  valley  behind  the  infantry.  But, 
unfortunately,  mundane  trifles  intervened.  Half-way 
between  the  two  pill-boxes  she  stuck.  In  the  vernacu- 
lar she  got  bellied,  and  her  infuriated  crew  realised 
that  only  extensive  digging  operations  from  the  out- 
side  would  save  the  situation.  Which  was  annoying 
considering  the  fact  that  they  were  well  within  the 
German  lines,  and  had  so  far  sent  only  ten  Huns  to 
account  for  their  nefarious  past 

"However,  there  was  nothing  for  it,  and  so  the 
crew  watched  the  Feet  go  past  them,  and  they  got  out 
to  investigate.  And  they  were  still  investigating  when 
a  couple  of  hours  later  the  infantry  started  to  come 
back.  Life,  so  the  Tank  Commander  gathered,  had 
not  been  all  it  might,  two  or  three  hundred  yards 
further  on;  more  pill-boxes  had  appeared,  with  ma- 
chine-guns placed  in  cunning  nooks,  and  altogether  the 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SEASICK  COW     179 

place  was  too  hot  for  comfort.  So,  seeing  that  the 
operation  was  only  a  local  one,  the  infantry  officer  in 
charge  had  decided  quite  rightly  to  withdraw,  in  or- 
der to  save  further  useless  loss  of  life. 

"You  get  the  picture,  Peter !"  James  leaned  for- 
ward with  his  eyes  on  me.  "Trickling  back  slowly — 
the  infantry;  bellied  and  stuck — the  Tank,  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  in  front  of  our  own  lines.  Time — 6  a.m.  on 
a  summer's  morning. " 

"Pleasant/'  I  answered.  "What  was  the  Hun  do- 
ing?" 

"At  the  moment — not  much.  There  was  a  lot  of 
machine-gunfire  in  front,  but  practically  no  artillery. 
Then  suddenly  down  came  the  barrage,  and  the  Tank's 
crew  hurriedly  ceased  their  investigations  and  got  in- 
side. When  they  looked  out  again  what  was  left  of 
the  infantry  had  disappeared." 

"So,"  I  said,  "if  I  take  the  situation  correctly,  at 
the  period  we  have  got  to  at  present,  we  have  Tanks, 
one,  disabled,  with  crew,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  odd  in 
front  of  our  outpost  line,  squatting  at  the  point 
where  a  small  hidden  valley  running  across  our 
front  debouched  into  the  open.  Given  in  addition  that 
the  valley  was  obviously  made  for  the  massing  of  a 
counter-attack,  and  that  one  might  reasonably  be  ex- 
pected in  the  near  future,  we  have  all  the  setting  for 
what  our  old  pal  FalstafT  would  have  described  as 
'indeed  a  bloody  business/  Don't  interrupt  me,  James ; 
I  know  it  wasn't  Falstaff,  but  he  might  just  as  easily 
have  said  it  as  anyone  else.  Question:  What  did 
A  do — A  being  the  Tank  Commander?" 


i8o  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

"When  you've  quite  finished,  I  propose  to  tell  you. 
And  before  I  begin,  what  would  you  have  done?" 

"Hopped  it  like  h — er — that  is,  I  should  immedi- 
ately have  beaten  a  strategic  retreat,  and  reported  to 
the  man  farthest  in  rear  who  would  listen  to  me  that 
I  had,  with  deep  regret,  left  the  Seasick  Cow  bellied 
in  the  Hun  lines,  and  please  might  I  go  on  kave  ?" 

"And  no  bad  judge,  either.  But  not  so  the  Tank 
wallah,  Peter,  not  so — but  far  otherwise.  It  may  have 
seemed  to  you  that  up-to-date  I  have  been  speaking 
with  undue  flippancy ;  I'll  cut  it  now,  old  man,  for  what 
I'm  going  to  tell  you  is  absolutely  great.  At  8  a.m., 
then,  on  a  certain  morning — the  barrage  being  over — - 
that  Tank  Commander  found  himself  deserted.  In 
front  of  him  an  occasional  Hun  dodged  from  shell- 
hole  to  shell-hole,  but  taking  it  all  the  way  round  there 
was  peace.  Behind  him  were  his  own  people,  but 
having  bellied  in  a  little  fold  in  the  ground,  he  was 
out  of  sight  from  them.  And  there  was  a  counter- 
attack expected.  So  he  called  together  his  warriors 
and  told  them  the  situation;  then  they  sat  down  and 
waited.  He  whose  soul  lay  in  the  engines  continued 
to  polish  them  mechanically ;  the  paint  artist  removed 
dirt  from  his  handiwork  and  cursed  fluently— while 
the  remainder  breakfasted  on  bully.  Then  they  waited 
again. 

"  'If  they  start  massing/  were  the  Tank  Command- 
er's orders,  'pop  outside  with  the  guns,  get  them  into 
shell-holes,  and  let  'em  have  it.  Then  get  back  in- 
side.' 

"At  midday  the  Hun  put  down  a  barrage  on  our 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SEASICK  COW     181 

own  front  line,  and  almost  at  once  their  infantry 
started  massing  in  the  valley.  They  came  on  in  line 
of  small  columns,  paying  not  the  slightest  attention 
to  the  Tank,  which  they  thought  was  deserted.  A 
beautiful  target,  Peter,  one  to  dream  about.  From 
about  a  hundred  yards  did  our  cheery  warriors  open 
fire,  and  allowing  for  exaggeration,  the  bag  was  about 
two  hundred.  So  that  counter-attack  did  not  material- 
ise, and  the  crew  had  dinner. 

"But  now  the  whole  aspect  of  affairs  had  changed, 
for  the  Huns  knew  that  the  Tank  was  very  far  from 
deserted.  Given  a  good  sniper,  unlimited  time,  and 
ammunition,  and  a  hole  to  shoot  at,  however  small, 
sooner  or  later  he  will  get  it.  It  was  about  four 
o'clock  that  the  monotonous  ping-ping  of  bullets  on 
the  Cow's  hide  changed  to  a  whistling  flop,  and  with 
a  drunken  gurgle  the  painter  crashed  down  on  to  the 
floor,  and  lay  there  drumming  with  his  heels.  Ten 
minutes  later  he  died,  and  the  crew  had  tea. 

"Thereafter  there  was  silence.  Occasionally  one  of 
the  men  sitting  motionless  at  his  gun  got  in  a  shot  at 
a  fleeting  target;  but  gradually  dusk  came  on,  the 
half-light  time  when  one  fancies  things,  when  the 
bushes  move  and  the  hummocks  of  mud  crawl  with 
men.  Then  came  the  night. 

"At  9  p.m.  the  Tank  Commander  had  decided  to 
send  an  N.C.O.  back  to  our  lines  to  inform  them  of 
the  situation;  and  at  9  p.m.,  therefore,  the  door  was 
carefully  opened,  and  a  sergeant  descended  into  the 
darkness.  The  next  instant  there  was  a  guttural  curse 
and  a  snarling,  worrying  noise.  He  had  fallen  on  top 


182  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

of  a  Hun,  and  had  only  just  time  to  stick  a  bayonet 
through  his  throat  and  jump  back  into  the  Tank  again, 
and  batten  down  the  door  when  the  Boches  were  all 
over  them.  For  six  long  weary  hours  did  they  clamber 
over  that  Tank,  bursting  bombs  on  the  top,  trying  to 
fire  through  loopholes,  shouting  to  the  crew  to  sur- 
render. And  the  only  answer  they  got  was:  Tor 
Heaven's  sake  go  away;  we  can't  sleep/  One  proud 
Berlin  butcher  planted  a  machine-gun  a  yard  from  the 
door,  and  fired  at  it  point-blank  for  an  hour.  Result 
— nil;  except  that  just  as  he  was  going  away,  being 
a-weary  of  his  pastime,  his  head  coincided  with  the 
muzzle  of  one  of  the  bigger  guns  of  the  Seasick  Cow. 
A  nasty  death — though  quick.  And  the  evening  and 
the  morning  were  the  first  day. 

"Twenty-four  hours,  Peter,  up-to-date — quite 
enough,  one  would  think,  for  the  ordinary  man.  But 
not  so  for  that  Tank  Commander.  When  the  first 
chinks  of  light  came  stealing  in  through  the  loop- 
holes, he  took  stock  of  his  surroundings.  Men  can't 
go  on  firing  point-blank  through  a  Tank  for  six  odd 
hours  without  doing  some  damage ;  and  though  a  cau- 
tious survey  of  the  ground  outside  revealed  a  pretty 
bag  of  dead  and  dying  Huns,  a  continuous  groaning 
from  the  corner  by  the  engine  showed  that  there  was 
trouble  inside  as  well.  The  groaning  came  from  the 
sergeant,  who  had  got  the  splinter  of  a  bomb  in  the 
stomach,  and  across  his  legs  lay  another  of  the  crew 
stone  dead,  shot  through  the  heart.  The  polisher  of 
engines  was  morosely  nursing  a  right  hand  which  hung 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SEASICK  COW     183 

down  limply  and  dripped,  and  yet  another  had  taken 
a  bullet  through  the  shoulder. 

"  'Boys/  remarked  the  Tank  Commander,  'things 
have  looked  better — sometimes.  But — they  may  put 
up  another  counter-attack  to-day.  What  say  you? 
Shall  we  pad  the  hoof?' 

"  'An*  let  them  ruddy  perishers  'ave  the  Cow  ?  Not 
on  your  life,  sir,  not  on  your  life.'  The  engineer 
scowled  horribly.  'Besides,  the  boys  may  come  back 
soon/ 

"  '  'Ear,  'ear/  The  sergeant's  voice  was  very  feeble. 
'Stick  it  out,  sir,  for  Gawd's  sake.' 

"  'Right  you  are,  boys.  Them's  my  sentiments. 
Let's  have  breakfast.' 

"The  next  day  was  hot  for  a  change — sweltering 
hot,  and  by  the  time  the  Boches  put  in  another  counter- 
attack the  sergeant  was  delirious.  It  was  a  much 
more  cautious  affair  this  time,  for  they  mistrusted  that 
squat,  silent  machine.  All  the  morning  snipers  had 
potted  at  her  from  three  sides  without  effect,  only  the 
monotonous  thud  of  the  bullets  lulled  the  remnants 
of  the  crew  to  sleep.  It  just  requires  a  little  imagina- 
tion, Peter,  that's  all,  to  get  the  inside  of  that  Tank. 
Two  dead,  one  delirious,  two  more  wounded,  and — 
well,  we  will  not  specify  further  details.  And  brood- 
ing over  all,  an  oppressive,  sweltering  heat,  through 
which  the  sergeant  moaned  continuously  and  begged 
for  water,  while  the  others  slept  fitfully  as  best  they 
could. 

"Then  came  the  second  counter-attack.  Once  again 
the  barrage  on  our  own  front  lines  roused  the  crew 


i84  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

and  they  stood  to  their  guns:  once  again  they  saw 
those  small  columns  of  Huns  coming  on.  As  I  said,  it 
was  a  far  more  cautious  affair  this  one,  and  targets 
were  hard  to  pick  up;  but  they  did  pick  'em  up,  and 
for  the  second  time  the  counter-attack  failed  to  ma- 
terialise. The  thing  which  did  not  fail  to  materialise 
was  an  odd  shot  through  one  of  the  loopholes  which 
found  that  a  man's  eye  is  not  bullet-proof.  And  that 
made  three  dead.  .  .  . 

"At  dusk  they  held  another  Council  of  War,  and  the 
Tank  Commander  gave  tongue.  'Go  forth,'  he  said, 
'even  like  the  penguins  from  the  Ark  and  tell  unto  the 
Feet  behind  us  that  we  are  sore  pressed,  but  that  our 
tails — in  so  far  as  they  remain — are  in  a  vertical  po- 
sition, above  our  heads.  Also  that  we  have  slaugh- 
tered large  quantities  of  Huns,  and  would  have  them 
join  us  in  this  most  exhilarating  sport/ 

"  'Even  so,  O  King,'  spake  out  he  of  the  wounded 
flipper,  'but  who  is  to  go?  For  upon  casting  my  eye 
round  the  court  circle,  beside  yourself  there  is  but 
one  unwounded  man/ 

"Forgive  me  thus  bursting  into  language  of  rare 
beauty,  but  I'm  afraid  it's  the  brandy."  James 
thoughtfully  lit  a  cigarette.  "I  gather  that  words  ran 
high  in  the  Seasick  Cow  when  the  Commander  in- 
sisted on  the  one  unwounded  man,  accompanied  by 
him  of  the  damaged  lunch-hooks,  going  back  and 
leaving  him.  For  a  while  they  flatly  refused  to  go,  and 
it  was  not  until  he  had  sentenced  them  both  to  penal 
servitude  for  life  that  they  reluctantly  agreed  to  obey 
orders.  And  so  at  8  pip  emma  on  the  second  day  they 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SEASICK  COW     185 

shook  one  another  by  the  hand,  grunted  as  is  the  man- 
ner of  our  race,  and  cautiously  dropped  out  of  the  en- 
trance and  this  story." 

"Which  up-to-date  is  not  bad  for  you,  James,"  I 
reassured  him,  kindly. 

"At  the  beginning  of  the  second  night,  then,"  he 
continued,  coldly,  "we  find  our  Tank  Commander  prac- 
tically alone.  Three  of  his  crew  were  dead,  the  ser- 
geant unconscious,  and  the  rest  in  varying  stages  of  de- 
lirious babblings.  And  though  it  is  easy  to  talk  of  here, 
yet  if  you  will  picture  your  own  wanderings  in  No 
Man's  Land,  with  the  flares  shooting  up,  and  the  things 
that  were  which  jibber  at  you,  and  having  pictured 
that,  imagine  yourself  inside  a  Tank,  with  occasional 
shafts  of  ghostly  light  flooding  through  loopholes  and 
shining  on  the  set  dead  faces  of  the  crew,  I  think  you 
will  agree  that  there  are  better  ways  of  spending  the 
night.  Not  a  soul  to  speak  to  coherently :  only  one  man 
who  thought  he  was  in  Smithfield  Market  selling  meat 
and  monotonously  called  the  prices,  and  another  who 
was  apparently  playing  mental  golf  round  Westward 
Ho!  Then,  as  a  finale,  the  sergeant  who  occasionally 
came  to  and  moaned  for  water:  but  being  hit  in  the 
stomach,  Peter,  he  couldn't  have  any.  Those  three  and 
the  dead.  .  .  . 

"At  10  pip  emma  came  the  Huns  again.  They 
swarmed  all  over  the  Tank  for  the  second  time,  and 
dodging  from  loophole  to  loophole  was  the  Tank  Com- 
mander. Sometimes  he  blew  a  man's  head  off  from 
point-blank  range,  sometimes  a  bullet  whizzed  past  his 
own  and  ricochetted  round  the  inside  of  the  Cow. 


186  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

About  twelve  the  golfer  was  hit  through  the  heart, 
and  shortly  afterwards  the  Smithfield  gentleman 
went  clean  crazy.  He  alternately  fired  a  Very  pistol 
and  one  of  the  guns  into  the  crowd  outside,  and,  find- 
ing this  too  slow,  endeavoured  to  open  the  door  and 
charge.  Then  somewhat  mercifully  he  collapsed  sud- 
denly and  lay  on  the  floor  and  babbled. 

"About  4  next  morning  the  Huns  went  away  again, 
and  the  Tank  Commander  had  just  enough  strength 
left  to  stagger  to  the  gun  and  draw  a  bead  on  a  stoutish 
officer  some  fifty  yards  away,  who  seemed  very  an- 
noyed about  something — probably  the  fact  that  the 
Cow  was  still  there.  He  pulled  the  trigger,  and  the 
shell  apparently  burst  on  the  officer;  which  must  have 
been  still  more  annoying  for  the  poor  man.  Then  with 
a  short  sigh  of  utter  weariness  he  collapsed  and  slept. 
And  the  evening  and  the  morning  were  the  second 
day.  .  .  . 

"About  three  o'clock  the  next  day  we  went  for- 
ward preceded  by  a  creeping  barrage.  Funnily  enough, 
I  personally  found  the  mechanic  and  the  other  war- 
rior. They  had  encountered  a  Hun  patrol,  and  things 
had  evidently  moved.  They  were  all  dead — four 
Huns,  and  the  two  Tankites.  The  mechanic  had  ap- 
parently used  a  spanner  with  effect:  he  still  had  it 
gripped  tight  in  his  right  hand.  Then  we  went  on  and 
saw  the  Tank  for  the  first  time,  because,  being  fresh 
troops,  we  knew  nothing  about  it.  It  was  dead — life- 
less: but  not  so  dead  or  lifeless  as  the  mass  of  Ger- 
mans heaped  around  it.  The  barrage  reached  it, 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SEASICK  COW     187 

played  on  it,  and  passed  on;  we  reached  it,  looked  at 
it,  and  were  about  to  pass  on  when  suddenly  the  door 
opened  and  a  haggard-looking,  blood-stained  wreck 
appeared  in  it. 

"  'What  a  shindy !'  he  remarked.  'It's  woken  me 
up.'" 

"Lord,  how  the  men  laughed.  It  takes  a  lot  to  make 
anyone  laugh  who  is  trying  to  walk  over  Flanders, 
but  they  howled — he  looked  so  confoundedly  peevish. 
Then  a  couple  of  them  looked  inside  the  Tank  and 
ceased  laughing  to  be  sick. 

"  'Got  two  stretcher-bearers  ?'  asked  the  apparition. 
'My  sergeant's  been  hit  in  the  stomach  for  forty-eight 
hours.' 

"We  found  him  two,  and  the  last  I  saw  of  him  for 
a  few  days  he  was  wandering  back  with  his  sergeant 
through  the  filth.  Met  him  often  since  at  Poperinghe 
in  the  club,  and  at  Bethune.  .  .  .  Night-night,  Jonah. 
When  are  you  going  back?" 

"In  five  days,  old  boy.     It's  a  hard  life,  is  not  it?" 

Jonah  and  his  girl  passed  slowly  up  the  steps,  and 
I  watched  them  as  they  went. 

"Poperinghe!  Bethune!"  I  murmured,  slowly. 
"Is  he  the  cause,  by  any  chance,  of  your  interesting 
but  somewhat  irrelevant  yarn?"  As  I  spoke  the  glit- 
ter and  scent,  the  lights  and  the  women,  seemed  blotted 
out  by  another  picture :  a  grim  picture  with  a  Tank  for 
setting,  a  squat  motionless  Tank  dripping  with  blood, 
surrounded  by  death. 

"Of  course,"  answered  James,  briefly.    "Three  days 


188  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

and  three  nights  in  the  belly  of  the  whale :  three  days 
and  two  nights  in  the  belly  of  the  Tank. 

"But,  by  Jove!  there's  Kitty  on  the  move.     Good- 
bye, old  man.     You  might  pay." 


CHAPTER  V 

GALLERY  NO.  3! 

THE  Tunnellers  sat  at  meat.  Much  has 
been  written  concerning  the  Birds  of  War,  and 
their  antics  and  their  gambols  and  the  presents  which 
they  drop  from  great  heights  on  an  unworthy  popula- 
tion below.  They  have  been  likened  to  swarms  of 
mosquitoes  twisting  and  dodging  in  the  sunlight  over 
some  stagnant  pool ;  they  have  been  likened  to  a  flight 
of  geese  coming  out  of  the  chilly  dawn  over  the  frozen 
marshes.  They  have  been  likened  to  many  things 
which  appeal  to  the  imagination  of  those  who  sit  and 
look  on  at  the  game  over  the  water,  and  no  allegorical 
fancy  is  half  so  wonderful  as  their  reality.  But  for 
the  moment  I  would  turn  to  the  other  end  of  the  mili- 
tary scale:  the  department  of  the  fighting  machine 
which  measures  in  inches  where  the  Birds  reckon  in 
leagues;  the  branch  which  lives  in  the  darkness.  The 
sunlight  does  not  shine  on  them;  their  deeds  are  not 
watched  by  interested  thousands  on  both  sides  of  No 
Man's  Land.  In  fact,  to  a  casual  visitor  in  the  trenches 
their  very  presence  might  be  unsuspected.  Periodically, 
as  you  pass  up  Maida  Vale  or  the  Edgware  Road,  or 
any  of  those  communication  trenches  which  stretch 

189 


190  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

back  from  the  front  line  till  they  gradually  peter  out 
and  come  to  the  surface — periodically  you  will  meet  a 
party  of  men  coming  the  other  way.  They  will  not  be 
shaven,  and  their  faces  and  clothes  will  be  caked  with 
white;  also  they  will  look  rather  tired.  It  is  the  last 
shift  leaving  the  mines  in  front,  and  going  out  to 
rest. 

And  when  you  go  on,  and  come  eventually  to  the 
front  line,  you  will  see  occasional  shafts  sticking  down 
into  the  ground — timbered  shafts,  like  the  entrance  of  a 
dugout.  Perhaps  a  monstrous  pair  of  bellows  will  be 
heaving  gently  at  the  top,  worked  by  two  men  who 
smoke  and  spit.  Perhaps  you  will  see  some  sand 
bags  coming  up  the  timber  slide  which  runs  down  the 
centre  of  the  shaft :  sand  bags  which  are  full  of  chalk 
and  are  hauled  up  by  another  man  who  smokes  and 
spits.  And  when  he  has  got  the  sand  bag  the  rope 
goes  down  again  to  some  one  at  the  bottom.  You  can 
just  see  his  white  face  ringed  by  the  darkness;  you 
can  hear  him  whistling  and  see  the  tug  on  the  rope 
when  the  next  bag  is  made  fast.  Beyond  him  you 
cannot  see;  beyond  him — stretching  perhaps  for  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  towards  the  Hun,  and  for  many 
quarters  sideways — lies  the  abode  of  the  moles.  The 
chalky  unshaven  men  have  come  from  the  darkness 
underneath ;  they  were  relieved  by  the  next  shift,  who 
are  down  there  now.  But  you  can  only  see  a  few 
sand  bags  and  an  infantryman  cleaning  his  rifle  in  the 
sunlight  of  the  trench  near  by.  .  .  . 

Sometimes  the  earth  will  suddenly  rock  and  shake, 
and  as  you  look  over  the  top  of  the  trench  you  may 


GALLERY  NO.  31  191 

see — if  you  are  quick — some  heaps  of  dirt  flying  up 
half  a  mile  away  on  the  right.  Also  you  may  see 
the  faint  pink  orange  glow  of  ammonal,  and  you  wiH 
assume  quite  rightly  that  a  small  mine  has  been  blown. 
But  even  as  you  come  to  this  conclusion,  and  decide 
to  wander  on,  you  will  find  beside  you  a  man  who 
blinks.  In  his  hand  he  holds  an  instrument  of  which 
it  would  not  be  well  to  speak,  and  even  as  he  blinks 
in  the  sudden  strong  light  he  is  peering  round  to 
find  that  pink  glow. 

"Did  you  notice  where  it  was,  sir?"  he  asks,  and 
then  he  sees  it  himself  and  grunts.  Perhaps  he  may 
confide  in  you,  more  often  he  grunts  again  and  writes 
something  with  a  blunt  pencil  on  a  dirty  piece  of 
paper.  Then  he  departs  whence  he  came :  down  below 
— into  the  dark — with  his  instrument.  There  had  been 
something  doing  in  the  under  world,  and  the  listener 
below  was  there  to  record  these  doings.  .  .  . 

And  so,  as  I  said  before,  the  Tunnellers  sat  at  meat; 
in  other  words,  the  officers  of  the  999th  Tunnelling 
Company  R.E.  were  consuming  their  dinner.  The 
conversation  was  singularly  unconnected  with  war 
and  correspondingly  dull  topics ;  in  fact,  at  the  moment 
Strickland,  late  of  Yukon,  held  the  Speaker's  eye.  He 
had  but  recently  returned  from  ten  days  in  the  land 
of  his  birth,  and  so  was  an  oracle. 

"What  is  the  best  thing  to  see  in  Town,  Joe,"  de- 
manded Brandsby,  who  in  two  days  was  to  go  and  do 
likewise. 

Strickland  grunted.  "There  are  revues,  my  boy," 
he  affirmed,  "by  the  score.  What  is  lacking  in  plot 


192  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

is  made  up  in  leg  in  all  of  them ;  and  it  is  very  beauti- 
ful. But  I'm  thinking  you're  too  young." 

Brandsby  laughed.  "My  dear  Joe,  aren't  you 
aware  that  you  are  one  of  those  poor  helpless  Colonials 
for  whom  special  legislation  is  required?  To  expose 
you,  my  poor  angel  boy,  to  the  perils  of  the  London 
streets,  is  nothing  short  of  diabolical  wickedness.  Tell 
me,  my  lad,  lest  I  burst  into  tears,  that  you  always  went 
straight  home  to  bed,  and  never,  never  played  any 
games  for  money  with  strangers. 

"And  when  I  think,"  chimed  in  the  Major,  "that 
this  high  moral  tone  is  entirely  due  to  me !  Pass  the 
port,  Brandsby,  and  we  will  hear  the  worst." 

Strickland  grinned  reminiscently.  "Tell  me,  souls, 
do  I  look  particularly  innocent?" 

The  chorus  in  reply  drowned  a  passing  shell,  and 
its  tenor  would  not  have  flattered  a  Sunday  School 
teacher. 

"Thank  you,"  murmured  Strickland.  "It's  nice  to 
know  these  things.  I  met  a  lad  of  the  village  in  the 

bar  at  the ,  well,  I  won't  say  where,  with  Brandsby 

going  home.  He  was  such  a  nice  man;  told  me  he'd 
been  in  the  Army  and  been  gassed.  Poor  chap !  And 
he  had  such  a  charming  face.  Dressed  so  nicely,  with 
pearl  studs  in  his  shirt." 

"Come  round  to  my  place  afterwards,  old  boy," 
he  said  effusively,  "and  have  a  drink,  and  tell  me  how 
things  are  going  over  the  water." 

Brandsby  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead.  "I 
feared  as  much,"  he  whispered  brokenly. 

"I  went"    Strickland  began  to  fill  his  pipe.    "It  was 


GALLERY  NO.  31  193 

half  an  hour — fairly  cautious  of  him,  I  thought — be- 
fore two  more  came  in.  Such  nice  men,  too ;  and  a  girl 
as  well :  such  a  darling.  Except  for  the  tactless  placing 
of  one  of  the  electric  lights,  I  should  never  have  noticed 
that  her  hair  was  of  a  different  colour  near  the  roots 
to  the  glorious  gold  which  coiffed  about  her  head. 
Good  word  that,  coiffed.  Oh,  she  was  a  dear !  A  trifle 
mechanical,  perhaps,  in  her  smile,  owing  to  the  thick- 
ness of  her  complexion — but  such  a  dear.  I  held 
her  hand  when  the  men  went  out  of  the  room,  and 
told  her  an  aunt  had  just  died  and  left  me  a  thousand, 
which  I  intended  to  spend  on  leave.  She  was  so  kind 
and  sweet  about  it :  called  me  a  naughty  boy,  and  got 
so  excited  that  she  had  trouble  with  her  false  teeth. 
Poor  little  thing — I  looked  away,  of  course." 

"Joe,  you  are  an  old  scoundrel."  The  Major  was 
shaking  with  laughter. 

"I  fail,  sir,"  remarked  Strickland  in  pained  surprise, 
"to  see  any  cause  for  hilarity.  After  a  while  the  men 
came  back,  and  then  of  course  it  was  rather  unfortu- 
nate. Her  eyelashes  were — er — wonderfully  long,  and 
apparently  sticky.  Why,  of  course,  I  don't  know,  ex- 
cept that  they  were  very  black;  I  suppose  I  oughtn't 
to  have  been  looking;  she  thought  I  wasn't,  and  she 
gave  them  the  comedian's  wink — the  sort  the  gallery 
sees.  And  the  poor  child's  eyelids  stuck.  It  was 
dreadful.  I  thought  of  offering  her  a  match  with 
which  to  unstick  them,  but  then  it  struck  me  that  per- 
haps it  wasn't  my  business,  so  I  lit  a  cigarette  instead. 
Then,  fortunately,  my  first  friend  proposed  a  quiet 


194  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

game  at  a  place  he  knew.    Quite  time,  too,  because  it 
was  getting  late. 

"Such  nice,  kind  hospitable  people  they  were  whom 
we  went  to.  I  had  a  pint  and  a  half  of  real  good  wine 
and  a  pot  of  caviare  to  my  own  cheek  as  soon  as  I  got 
there.  And  then,  seeing  I  was  nervous,  the  dear  girl 
came  and  offered  to  show  me  how  to  play." 

"What  was  the  game,  Joe?"  demanded  Brandsby 

"Baccarat,"  answered  Strickland  mildly,  and  the 
men  howled.  On  the  subject  of  Joe  Strickland  and 
cards  a  volume  might  be  written.  There  is  the  story, 
for  instance,  of  the  gambling  saloon  in  Dawson  City, 
and  Joe  and  two  greasers,  which  has  long  been  shout- 
ing for  publicity.  But  it  must  keep. 

"She  explained  the  rules  to  me,"  went  on  Strick- 
land, when  the  noise  had  subsided,  "and  after  a  while 
I  staked  a  pound  and  won.  Wasn't  it  wonderful? 
Then  I  put  on  ten  pounds  and  won  again.  She  was 
delighted,  dear  little  thing,  and  squeezed  my  arm. 

"Sweetest  of  girls,"  I  murmured  into  her  ear.  "I'm 
so  excited  I  must  have  some  more  champagne."  So 
we  had  another  half -pint,  and  then  I  looked  at  my 
watch.  "Good  gracious  me,"  I  exclaimed,  "it's  five  to 
three.  I  must  go." 

"Oh,  the  disillusion  of  that  moment!  Her  face 
froze :  yea,  verily,  the  varnish  cracked !  'Go,'  she  splut- 
tered, 'why,  you've  only  just  come/ 

"Only  too  true,  my  angel,"  I  whispered  tenderly, 
"but  my  mother  sitteth  in  the  cold,  cold  hall,  waiting 
for  her  baby  boy." 

Strickland  thoughtfully  drained  his  whisky.     "It 


GALLERY  NO.  31  195 

was  very  sad  and  terrible,  that  episode.  I  felt  that  I 
had  misjudged  human  nature.  The  baccarat  table 
broke  up  like  a  log  jam  bursting,  and  they  all  talked 
at  once.  They  were  most  offensive,  and  they  sur- 
rounded me  as  I  reached  the  door.  He  of  the  pearl 
studs  gibbered. 

"At  last  they  let  me  speak.  'Dear  friends/  I  re- 
marked affably,  'I  have  enjoyed  my  evening  immensely. 
The  champagne  was  good :  the  caviare  excellent ;  but 
the  baccarat,  I  grieve  to  say,  was  poor.'  Then  they 
jostled  me,  and  I  became  annoyed.  'You  half-baked 
Sheeny/  I  said  to  Mr.  Pearl  Studs,  Tve  forgotten  more 
about  cards  than  any  of  you  damned  bohunks  ever 
knew.  I've  seen  crooked  shows  run  in  most  every 
corner  of  the  globe,  and  this  stunt  wouldn't  take  in  a 
looney  who  thought  he  was  a  poached  egg.  Then,  to 
cap  it  all,  you  swabs  of  the  gutter,  you  give  me  a  dud 
fiver  amongst  my  winnings.  I'll  just  change  that 
now.' 

"But  I  had  to  lay  two  of  them  out  before  I  could. 
Then  I  left."  Joe  Strickland  smiled  reminiscently. 
"Some  evening!" 

"And  these  are  the  men  for  whom  the  keepers  of 
England's  morals  grieve  and  wax  sad,"  sighed  Brands- 
by.  "I'm  afraid  you're  a  hard  case,  Joe." 

Strickland  grinned,  and  stretched  himself.  Under 
the  sleeves  of  his  coat  one  could  trace  the  swell  of 
his  muscles,  and  the  whole  poise  of  the  man  spoke 
of  his  perfect  fitness,  his  immense  physical  strength. 

"I'd  like  to  meet  that  crowd  again  in  London," 


196  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

he  grinned.  "The  brass  of  them;  the  ineffable  gall. 
Baccarat !  Great  Scott!  they  couldn't  swindle  at  snap/' 

As  he  spoke  the  door  of  the  mess  hut  opened,  and 
a  grey-caked  subaltern  entered.  "And  here  is  the  kid — 
full  of  war  and  chalk." 

"Hullo,  Joe!  good  leave?"  The  new-comer  pulled 
off  his  steel  hat  and  flung  it  in  a  chair.  "Excuse  my 
coming  in  in  this  filthy  condition,  sir,"  he  said  to 
the  Major,  "but  there's  a  bit  of  trouble  up  in  31  Gal- 
lery." 

Joe  Strickland  sat  up  and  took  notice.  "31,"  he 
said.  "And  what  are  they  doing  there,  Dick  ?" 

"Well,  you'd  smell  it  easier  than  I  would,  Joe,"  re- 
torned  the  other,  "you  know  it  so  much  better.  But 
th..i  corporal  of  yours  with  the  flattened  face  is  not 
easy  in  his  mind." 

The  Major  looked  up  from  the  map  he  was  studying. 
It  was  just  an  ordinary  trench  map  with  one  or  two 
additions,  which  are  about  the  only  things  not  re- 
vealed by  aeroplane  photographs.  They  were  red  and 
black  and  purple  lines,  and  some  stretched  across  the 
front,  and  some  ran  out  towards  the  front  and  finished 
abruptly.  Thus  were  the  shafts  and  galleries,  the 
cross-cuts  and  counter-galleries  shown  on  paper  for  all 
to  see;  whilst  others  in  dotted  lines  marked  the  esti- 
mated positions  of  the  Germans.  It  was  just  the  bot- 
tom layer  of  the  war  that  is  waged  above,  on,  and 
under  the  ground.  And  for  the  above  ground  no  maps 
can  be  made — the  air  is  uncharted.  For  on  the  ground 
the  maps  are  so  accurate  that  the  damned  thing  has 
become  a  science.  But  for  under  the  ground  there 


GALLERY  NO.  31  197 

is  still  the  element  of  doubt:  the  dotted  lines  are  not 
always  right.  .  .  . 

"31,"  said  the  Major  slowly.  "You've  never  been 
certain  about  that  Hun  counter-gallery  to  your  right, 
have  you,  Joe?" 

"Not  certain,  sir,  but  as  near  it  as  makes  no  odds," 
Strickland  was  looking  thoughtful.  "I  think  I'll  turn 
in  at  once,  and  get  up  there  early  to-morrow  morn* 

ing." 

"I'll  come  with  you,  Joe,"  said  Brandsby.  "I  want 
to  have  a  final  look  at  that  new  cross-cut  in  my  bit." 


Now  it  is  not  my  intention  to  give  a  treatise  on  the 
somewhat  involved  subject  of  military  mining  in 
France  to-day.  Starting  early  in  1915,  in  a  free  and 
easy  way,  each  side  bored  tunnels  under  No  Man's 
Land,  and  having  filled  the  end  with  explosives  blew 
them  in,  to  the  annoyance  of  those  who  happened  to  be 
on  top  at  the  time.  The  system  was  haphazard,  the 
tunnels  promiscuous.  If  a  general  desired  blood  to 
be  shed  in  a  novel  manner,  he  ordered  a  mine,  and 
his  desire  was  frequently  gratified.  But  there  the  mat- 
ter ended.  Except  for  the  decease  of  the  miners  or 
the  mine,  or  both,  no  one  was  any  forrader. 

And  so,  each  side  realising  that  the  question  was 
capable  of  considerable  expansion,  system  gradually 
took  the  place  of  individual  enterprise,  and  under- 
ground warfare  on  a  definite  plan  became  an  additional 
joy  for  the  unhappy  beings  involved.  The  system  is 
far  too  long  and  complicated  to  describe,  and,  in  addi- 


*98  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

:tion,  I  rather  believe  is  confidential.  But  before  I  pro- 
rceed  with  the  adventure  which  befell  Joe  Strickland 
•and  Dick  Brandsby  in  Number  31,  it  will  be  necessary 
to  give,  very  briefly,  one  or  two  broad  facts. 

In  mining  the  tactics  are  much  the  same  as  in  any- 
'thing  else.  From  both  sides  of  No  Man's  Land  gal- 
leries are  pushed  out  to  feel  for  the  enemy,  who  in 
his  turn  is  pushing  out  further  galleries  to  feel  for 
you.  The  positions  of  your  own  galleries  are  of 
course  known ;  the  positions  of  the  enemy's  can  only  be 
estimated  by  listening  for  his  men  at  work  on  them. 

Sometimes  two  galleries  meet,  in  which  case  care 
must  be  taken.  At  least,  such  is  the  general  opinion, 
and  I  give  it  for  what  it  is  worth. 

But  this  is  not  a  common  occurrence,  and  in  general 
the  two  sets  of  galleries  meet  one  another  like  inter- 
locking fingers.  Numbers  30  and  31,  for  instance,  of 
the  English  system,  in  some  place  where  mining  activ- 
ity is  great,  will  run  out  parallel  to  one  another  under 
No  Man's  Land  and  a  certain  distance  apart.  Pos- 
sibly their  two  ends  may  each  be  fifty  yards  in  front 
of  our  trenches.  Between  those  two  galleries  is  a 
German  gallery,  with  its  end  possibly  nearer  our 
trenches  than  that  fifty  yards:  which  gives  us  the 
simile  of  the  interlocking  fingers. 

One  further  thing  I  must  say  before  I  proceed,  and 
that  is  this.  These  galleries  may  be  either  offensive 
or  defensive:  they  may  be  either  for  the  purpose  of 
doing  damage  to  the  Hun  or  for  preventing  him  do- 
ing damage  to  you.  If  a  gallery  is  offensive  it  is  pushed 
on  until  it  is  under  the  position  which  it  is  proposed 


GALLERY  NO.  31  199 

to  destroy,  and  is  then  stacked  with  a  large  and  pow- 
erful charge.  The  damage  has  to  be  done  on  the  sur- 
face, and  therefore  a  great  bulk  of  explosive  is  used. 

But  if  the  gallery  is  defensive  its  object  is  merely 
to  prevent  that  offensive  gallery  from  succeeding.  In 
order  to  do  this  a  small  charge  only  is  put  in,  generally 
called  a  camouflet,  which,  when  exploded,  does  no 
damage  on  the  surface,  but,  blowing  sideways,  wrecks 
the  offensive  gallery  itself  and  annoys  the  painstaking 
warriors  who  have  built  it. 

Which  brings  us  to  the  point.  31  was  a  defensive 
gallery,  comparatively  short  in  length;  30  was  an  of- 
fensive one,  stretching  out  many  yards  farther  than 
31,  and  designed  ultimately  to  disintegrate  a  German 
strong  point  which  annoyed  the  Feet.  Between  3^  and 
31  lay  a  German  shaft,  and  it  was  this  which  the  cor- 
poral with  the  flattened  features  felt  uneasy  about.  It 
still  had  some  yards  to  go  before  it  was  completed, 
and  the  danger  was  that  the  Germans  might  discover 
30,  and  by  blowing  a  camouflet  to  wreck  it,  wreck  also 
31  on  the  other  side. 

Apologising  then  for  this  untoward  digression,  let 
us  return  to  the  doings  of  our  friends.  It  was  4.30 
ak  emma  the  following  morning  that  Strickland  and 
Brandsby,  having  breakfasted  in  silence,  mounted 
their  bicycles  and  proceeded,  still  in  silence,  towards 
the  trenches.  4.30  ak  emma  is  a  silent  hour,  and 
even  the  guns  seemed  to  appreciate  the  fact.  The 
morning  sun  was  shining  nicely,  and  the  dew  was 
glistening  as  it  should,  as  our  two  officers  pedalled 
Up  the  pave  road.  Everything,  in  fact,  conspired  to 


200  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

cause  a  poetical  outburst  from  one  if  not  both,  and 
it  was  Strickland  who  obliged. 

"Some  day,"  he  murmured  gently,  "I  will  catch  the 
man  who  made  the  Government  bicycle." 

Stand-to  was  over  when  they  reached  the  line,  and 
without  further  waste  of  time  they  crawled  down  the 
entrance  of  31  shaft.  For  a  while  neither  of  them 
could  see,  and  they  waited  to  let  their  eyes  get  accus- 
tomed to  the  darkness.  Then,  silently,  they  walked 
forward  along  the  gallery. 

Strickland  stopped  at  the  first  T-head — a  little  gal- 
lery running  off  the  main  one  for  listening  purposes. 
Seated  on  some  sand  bags  was  a  man  with  an  instru- 
ment to  his  ears,  and  as  the  officers  came  behind  him 
he  looked  up. 

"Not  a  sound,  sir,"  he  whispered.  "Not  a  sound  for 
four  'ours.  I  believe  they're  going  to  blow." 

Strickland  nodded  and  took  the  instrument.  In  a 
warfare  where  everything  is  sound,  unnecessary  con- 
versation is  discouraged.  For  a  long  while  he  listened, 
and  then  he  turned  to  the  man. 

"Where  is  Corporal  James?"  he  muttered. 

"Up  at  the  'ead,  sir." 

"Right.  Stop  here  till  you  get  further  orders.  I'm 
going  up  to  see  him." 

Brandsby  and  he  went  out  into  the  main  gallery 
and  continued  along  it.  A  man — his  naked  chest  glis- 
tening white  in  the  darkness — squeezed  past  them,  car- 
rying a  sand  bag  of  excavated  earth,  and  him  Strick- 
land again  accosted. 

"Corporal,  sir?     Up  in  front,"  he  answered,  and 


GALLERY  NO.  31  201 

once  more  the  two  groped  quietly  forward.  At  length 
they  rounded  a  slight  bend,  and  in  front  a  light  was 
gleaming,  showing  up  the  face  of  the  gallery.  The 
wall  of  clay  was  sweating  like  a  racquet-court  wall  will 
at  times,  and  an  occasional  big  drop  of  water  splashed 
down  from  the  roof.  Six  feet  high,  two  feet  six  inches 
wide,  the  shaft  struck  dank  and  cold  to  the  officers: 
only  the  man  loosening  the  soil  on  the  face,  ceaselessly, 
steadily,  was  dripping  with  perspiration.  His  job  was 
just  to  go  on  until  he  was  relieved,  or  the  corporal 
told  him  to  stop;  not  to  argue  or  to  think  what  might 
be  doing  in  that  German  gallery  next  door.  Of  course 
he  knew;  he  knew  as  well  as  the  officers  what  was 
feared;  but  he  had  his  job,  and  that  was  that. 

In  another  small  T-head,  close  to  the  face  of  the 
gallery,  sat  Corporal  James. 

"What's  the  trouble,  James?"  whispered  Strickland. 

"I'm  thinking  we'd  better  clear,  sir,  for  the  time," 
answered  the  N.C.O.  "I  heard  them,  and  so  did  Davis 
down  t'other  T-head,  up  till  about  midnight.  Since 
then  he  ain't  'card  nothing,  and  no  more  'ave  I. 
But- "  He  paused  and  scratched  his  head. 

"But  what?"  prompted  Strickland. 

"I  can't  'elp  thinking,  sir,  as  'ow  we're  very  near 
another  of  their  galleries,  on  the  other  side,  and  so 
does  Peters  there  on  the  face." 

"Another  of  these  galleries?"  queried  Strickland, 
producing  a  map  from  his  pocket  and  peering  at  it. 
"What  makes  you  think  so  ?" 

"I've  heard  'em,  sir :  'card  'em  last  night.  They're 
rare  close." 


202  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

"Aye,  that's  so,"  muttered  Peters,  stopping  in  his 
work  for  a  moment.  "Through  there,  they  be;  I've 
'eard  'em  too."  He  put  his  ear  against  the  clay  in 
front,  and  while  he  listened  no  one  moved.  "There 
ain't  nothing  now,  but  I've  'eard  'em  right  enough." 

For  a  short  time  Joe  Strickland  looked  thoughtful 
and  then  he  made  up  his  mind.  "We  will  clear  the 
gallery  for  a  little,  Corporal  James,  and  I  will  decide 
what  is  to  be  done  later.  You  get  on  out,  and  you, 
too,  Peters.  Take  Davis  as  well." 

"Very  good,  sir."  The  men  departed,  and  the  offi- 
cers were  left  alone. 

"Don't  you  wait,  Dick,"  said  Strickland.  "I'm  just 
going  to  listen  here  for  a  bit,  and  see  if  I  can  hear 
any  sounds  in  this  new  gallery  they're  talking  about." 

"Of  course  you  won't,  old  boy.  They're  always 
hearing  things — these  heroes." 

"They're  both  good  men."  Joe  Strickland  flattened 
his  head  against  the  face  of  the  gallery.  "James 
doesn't  often  make  mistakes." 

For  probably  three  minutes  did  Strickland  listen 
with  every  sense  alert,  while  Brandsby  waited  behind 
him,  leaning  against  the  wall.  And  in  a  war  where 
three  seconds  is  enough  to  escape  or  run  into  trouble, 
to  deal  in  minutes  is  asking  for  it.  It  was  as  he  straight- 
ened up  and  prepared  to  follow  in  Corporal  James's 
footsteps  that  a  sudden  violent  upheaval  shook  the 
ground  and  flung  him  into  Brandsby's  arms.  The 
whole  gallery  rocked,  and  there  was  a  rending  heavy 
noise.  The  light  went  out  at  once,  and  the  two  men 
staggered  to  their  feet,  clutching  one  another  in  the 


GALLERY  NO.  31  203 

inky  blackness,  which  pressed  around  them  so  that  it 
could  almost  be  felt. 

"My  God,  Dick!"  cried  Strickland,  after  the  noise 
and  the  shaking  had  subsided.  "What's  happened  ?" 

"The  Lord  knows,"  answered  the  other  shortly; 
"but  it's  me  for  the  shore.  Have  you  got1  a  match  ?" 

There  are  few  things  so  pitiful  as  the  light  of  a 
match  in  a  great  darkness,  but  Strickland  lit  one,  and 
holding  it  on  a  level  with  his  face  groped  after  Brands- 
by  down  the  gallery.  They  had  gone  perhaps  thirty 
yards  round  the  bend  when  Brandsby  stopped,  and  hav- 
ing felt  in  front  of  him  turned  sharply  round.  By  the 
feeble  glimmer  Strickland  saw  his  face — and  it  was 
grim  and  set. 

"What  is  it,  Dick?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"We're  blocked;  the  shaft's  blown  in."  The  two 
officers  looked  at  one  another  without  speaking;  each 
knew  what  it  meant. 

"Have  you  tried  up  at  the  top?  There  might  be 
a  way  through."  Strickland  lit  another  match,  and 
together  they  peered  at  the  solid  wall  of  earth  and 
splintered  timber  that  confronted  them.  There  was 
no  way  through. 

"So  they  did  blow  that  camouflet,"  said  Brandsby. 
"James  was  right.  And  we,  old  son,  are  buried  alive. 
I'm  thinking  the  boat  will  go  without  me  to-morrow." 

"God!  Dick,  I'm  sorry."  Strickland  looked  at  him 
miserably.  "If  only  I  hadn't  stopped  fooling  for  five 
minutes:  if  only  we'd  gone  at  once " 

Brandsby  took  him  by  the  arm  affectionately.    "The 


204  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

world  has  always  been  made  up  of  'if  onlys,'  dear  old 
boy.  Don't  worry  yourself." 

Strickland  lit  another  match,  and  again  examined 
the  blown-in  gallery. 

"Hopeless,"  he  muttered,  "absolutely  hopeless.  Per- 
haps they'll  get  to  us  in  time,  Dick ;  James  must  know 
we  are  here." 

"And  in  the  meantime  do  you  think  you'd  better 
go  on  burning  matches?"  said  Brandsby.  Their  eyes 
met,  and  once  again  did  each  understand.  Then 
Strickland  blew  out  the  match,  and  the  darkness 
closed  round  them. 

It  is  not  given  to  Englishmen  in  such  positions  to  talk 
much  or  get  excited.  When,  humanely  speaking,  the 
end  is  inevitable — when  everything  has  been  tried  that 
can  be  tried,  and  everything  thought  of  that  can  be 
thought  of,  without  avail — then  the  average  English- 
man sits  down,  and  waits  for  it  quietly.  And  these 
two  were  too  expert  at  their  trade  not  to  realise  that 
they  could  do  nothing. 

At  one  end  of  their  prison  was  the  uncut  face,  at 
the  other  a  mass  of  debris,  possibly  thirty  yards 
thick,  where  the  German  camouflet  had  wrecked  the 
gallery.  Unless,  therefore,  some  miracle  happened, 
they  would  in  the  course  of  a  few  hours  die  of  suffo- 
cation. And  they  knew  it.  ... 

"Have  you  a  revolver,  Joe?"  Brandsby  broke  the 
long  silence  suddenly. 

"Yes.    But  we'll  wait  till  the  last  moment." 

"Of  course.  But  I'm  glad  it's  there.  And  a  ciga- 
rette, I  think,  as  a  final  debauch." 


GALLERY  NO.  31  205 

Once  again  silence  fell,  to  be  broken  half  an  hour 
later  by  Brandsby  laughing. 

"Hell !  Joe,  I  would  have  loved  to  have  seen  you  in 
that  baccarat  stunt." 

"Yes,"  returned  Strickland,  "it  was  a  good  evening. 
Look  here,  old  man,  I'm  going  to  wander  along  and 
find  some  sand  bags.  This  is  deuced  uncomfortable, 
and  one  may  as  well  .  .  ." 

He  groped  along  the  gallery  towards  the  face,  with 
Brandsby  behind  him.  And  it  was  as  he  rounded  the 
bend  that  he  stopped  as  if  he  had  been  shot,  and  gripped 
the  other's  arm  like  a  vice. 

"My  God!"  he  breathed,  "look  at  that." 

In  the  centre  of  the  pitchy  blackness  in  front  was 
a  hole  through  which  gleamed  a  faint  light,  and  on 
the  other  side  of  the  hole  they  could  see  the  outline 
of  a  German's  head.  He  was  peering  through,  trying 
to  pierce  the  darkness  and  see  what  lay  beyond;  and 
instinctively  both  officers  lowered  their  heads  to  cover 
the  white  patches  of  their  faces.  Then  the  light  went 
out,  and  once  again  everything  was  black. 

"Go  back,"  whispered  Strickland  in  Brandsby's  ear, 
"behind  the  bend.  And  for  the  love  of  Heaven  not 
a  sound." 

Cautiously  they  crept  back,  feeling  their  way  along 
the  timbering,  and  they  were  only  just  in  time.  Barely 
had  they  reached  the  beginning  of  the  block  in  the  shaft 
when  they  saw  a  faint  light  flickering  in  the  darkness 
near  the  bend — a  light  whose  centre  darted  up  and 
down  the  sides  of  the  gallery,  a  light  which  must  have 
revealed  their  presence  had  it  picked  them  up.  The 


206  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

German  was  flashing  a  torch  through  the  hole,  and 
only  the  bend  in  the  gallery  had  saved  them.  Then 
that  light  too  was  extinguished,  and,  after  a  few  sec- 
onds, they  heard  an  unmistakable  noise  from  the  dark- 
ness in  front. 

"He's  widening  the  hole,"  whispered  Brandsby,  "and 
then,  my  son,  he's  going  to  explore.  What  price 
us?" 

Strickland  was  whistling  noiselessly  under  his 
breath.  "Damned  sight  more  expensive  than  we  were 
before,  honey  boy.  Gee !  this  is  going  to  be  fun."  He 
started  whistling  again.  "James  was  right,"  he  mut- 
tered reflectively,  "and  that  camouflet  must  have  caused 
a  subsidence  in  front." 

"Yes,  confound  it,"  said  Brandsby;  "but  my  leave- 
boat  still  seems  a  bit  hazy.  Instead  of  dying  of  suf- 
focation, we  become  prisoners.  And  from  what  I've 
heard  I  don't  want  to  become  a  prisoner." 

"Never  meet  trouble  half  way,  Dick,  my  boy," 
chuckled  Strickland.  "The  Lord  will  provide;  and  in 
the  meantime  we  will  help  Him.  Ssh " 

Once  again  the  light  was  flashing  in  front  of  them, 
and  there  came  a  cautious  shuffling  as  the  German 
scrambled  through  the  hole. 

"Up  to  the  bend,  Dick,"  whispered  Strickland.  "We 
must  catch  him  as  he  turns  the  light  along  this  arm." 

"And  then?"  Joe  Strickland  heard  the  half- 
breathed  question  behind  him. 

"In  silence,"  he  muttered  grimly.    "I'll  do  it." 

They  crept  along  the  fifteen  yards  to  the  bend,  which 
showed  up  clearly  in  the  flickering  light  from  the 


GALLERY  NO.  31  207 

other  way,  and  then  they  waited.  They  heard  the 
heavy  breathing  of  the  German  as  he  approached 
them;  they  watched  the  light  growing  stronger  and 
stronger.  Then  it  went  out  again :  he  was  evidently 
going  to  round  the  actual  bend  in  darkness.  Tensely 
they  waited,  and  then  Brandsby  heard  a  scuffle  in  front 
of  him.  There  was  a  gurgling  noise  and  a  boot  hit  the 
timbering  hollowly.  Then  there  was  the  sound  of  a 
blow,  a  short,  stifled  grunt,  and  the  noise  of  a  heavy 
body  being  cautiously  laid  down.  Then  silence 

"Where  are  you,  Joe?"  he  whispered  into  the  dark- 
ness. "All  right?"  * 

"Quite,"  gasped  Strickland,  "but  he  got  me  in  the 
wind.  Was  there  much  noise?" 

"Practically  none.     Is  he  dead?" 

"Very,"  Strickland  grunted.  "Feel  for  his  legs, 
Dick,  and  cart  him  along.  He  may  have  a  pal,  and 
we  don't  want  him  blocking  up  the  road." 

So  they  carried  him  back  to  the  block,  and  only 
when  they  got  him  there  did  they  dare  to  flash  for  a 
second  on  their  burden  the  torch  which  Strickland  had 
picked  up.  And  he  was  very  dead,  even  as  Joe  Strick- 
land had  said.  .  .  . 

He  thoughtfully  pulled  out  the  knife  and  wiped  it; 
then  he  turned  to  Brandsby. 

"So  far,  so  good,  old  dear.  But  the  situation  is 
still,  in  official  parlance,  a  little  obscure.  We  cannot 
remain  here  like  Horatius,  slaughtering  the  German 
army  by  individuals." 

"And  if  we  go  forward,"  returned  the  other  grimly, 
"the  German  army  will  slaughter  us  by  individuals." 


208  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

"It  looks  like  it,  Dick,  I  must  admit."  Strickland 
grinned  gently  to  himself  in  the  darkness.  "  'You've 
had  a  raw  deal,  I  know — but  don't  squeal.  Buck 
up.  Do  your  damndest,  and  fight/  "  he  quoted  softly. 
Then  he  fell  to  whistling  again,  while  the  body  of 
the  German  twitched  and  heaved  as  it  lay.  .  .  . 

"Great  Scott,  Dick !"  he  whispered  suddenly.  "I've 
got  it.  The  only  chance.  We've  got  to  find  another 
Hun." 

"Not  much  difficulty  about  that,"  grunted  Brands- 
by.  "Go  through  into  their  gallery,  and  you'll  find  hun- 
dreds of  'em  when  you  get  to  their  trenches." 

"Yes,  Dick,  but  he's  got  to  be  a  dead  Hun,"  re- 
turned Strickland.  "Like  this  one.  If  we  arrive  in 
their  lines  in  our  own  uniform  we  shan't  be  popular. 
If  we  arrive  in  theirs  and  it's  dark,  you  might  catch 
your  boat." 

Brandsby  was  silent.  "It's  death  if  we're  caught, 
Joe,"  he  said  after  a  moment. 

"Hell  take  it,  man.  I'm  thinking  there  ain't  many 
insurance  companies  would  regard  your  life  as  a  good 
one  at  the  present  moment,  any  way.  Here  we  are 
with  a  dead  Fritz,  and  sooner  or  later  we  must  go  or 
starve  to  death.  And  when  they  find  we've  killed  him 
— well,  you  know  the  Hun." 

"Bravely  spoken,  old  soul."  Brandsby  was  begin- 
ning to  feel  enthusiastic.  "Though  at  the  moment " 

"1st  es  du,  Fritz?"  A  sudden  horse  whisper  came 
from  close  to,  and  Brandsby  stiffened  where  he  stood. 
There  was  a  cautious  movement  at  his  side ;  somebody 
brushed  against  him  and  stumbled.  "Mein  Gott !"  He 


GALLERY  NO.  31  209 

heard  the  exclamation,  and  the  next  instant  he  heard 
Strickland's  whisper. 

"Where  is  he,  Dick.    Get  him  for  God's  sake." 

Brandsby's  hand  shot  out,  and  in  a  second  he  was 
fighting  for  his  life.  He  felt  a  hand  come  at  his  face; 
he  felt  an  arm  come  round  his  neck,  while  he  fum- 
bled himself  for  the  German's  throat.  He  got  a  grip, 
but  the  pressure  of  the  German's  hand  under  his  jaw 
forcing  his  head  back  nearly  broke  his  neck.  With 
his  feet  braced  against  the  wall,  he  put  forward  every 
ounce  of  his  strength,  but  still  the  pressure  on  his  neck 
did  not  relax.  He  squeezed  the  throat  of  his  antagonist 
convulsively,  but  he  knew  that  it  was  only  a  question 
of  time,  before  .  .  .  What  the  devil  was  Strickland 
doing?  Why  didn't  he  help ? 

The  thoughts  were  racing  through  his  brain  as  he 
swayed  backwards  and  forwards,  and  almost  as  if  in 
answer  Strickland  took  the  risk.  He  flashed  his  torch 
on  the  struggling  pair,  and  then  he  struck.  .  .  . 

In  the  brief  second  of  light  Brandsby  saw  the  dis- 
torted furious  face  of  the  German,  snarling  and  venom- 
ous; he  saw  Strickland's  knife  flash;  he  felt  the  blow 
go  home.  And  then  the  pressure  on  his  neck  relaxed, 
and  with  a  dull  thud  the  German  collapsed  at  his  feet. 

"Pull  yourself  together,  Dick."  Through  the  pound- 
ing of  his  heart  he  heard  Strickland's  voice.  "There 
may  be  another;  I'm  going  to  the  bend." 

"Gradually  his  breathing  became  normal  again,  and 
he  steadied  down.  The  dead  German  still  lay  against 
his  legs,  and  with  an  uncontrollable  shudder  he  rolled 
the  body  over. 


210  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

Then  he  heard  Strickland's  voice  again  in  his  ear. 

"I  don't  hear  a  sound,  Dick;  I  guess  it's  now  or 
never.  I'll  take  the  big  one,  and  you  take  the  first." 

And  once  more  did  Brandsby  shudder  .  .  .  uncon- 
trollably. 

I  wish  I  knew  more  about  the  eight  hours  which 
elapsed  after  two  men  in  dirty  German  uniforms,  one 
of  which  was  stained  and  torn  in  front  and  the  other 
stained  and  torn  behind,  squeezed  through  a  hole  in 
the  bowels  of  the  earth  and  found  themselves  in  the 
German  galleries.  It  was  two  p.m.  when  they  did 
it ;  it  was  ten  p.m.  when  they  were  next  heard  of ;  and 
I  cannot  help  thinking  that  it  was  a  crowded  period. 

When  two  lone  men  are  lying  doggo,  lost  in  inky 
darkness;  when  they  are  both  dressed  as  Germans 
and  neither  can  speak  a  word  of  the  lingo;  when  it's 
certain  death  to  make  a  mistake,  and  it's  merely  a 
fluke  if  you  don't,  there  is  an  excuse  if  nerves  get  a 
little  jangled.  And  yet  Brandsby  swears — when  he 
mentions  the  matter  at  all — that  Joe  Strickland 
chuckled  so  continually  throughout  the  afternoon  that 
he  was  in  mortal  dread  of  being  discovered;  while 
Strickland  swears  that  Dick  Brandsby's  ceaseless  con- 
versation on  the  matter  of  leave  so  unnerved  him  that 
on  several  occasions  he  thought  of  stunning  him  to 
ensure  silence. 

Apparently  they  were  not  much  disturbed.  Once 
some  one  came  past  the  T-head  where  they  were 
crouching,  and  turning  his  torch  on  them  came  in  and 
commenced  a  little  playful  badinage.  Possibly  it  was 


GALLERY  NO.  31  211 

the  lack  of  response  that  made  him  look  a  little  closer  ; 
anyway,  as  Strickland  put  it,  it  was  all  very  unfor- 
tunate. He  had  said  "Nein"  twice,  and  Brandsby  to 
make  sure  had  remarked,  "Yah."  Then  they  just 
caught  him  in  time  as  he  was  fading  away,  and 
Brandsby  produced  some  morphia  tablets. 

"Bye-bye,  baby,  on  the  tree  top,"  crooned  the  ir- 
repressible Joe,  forcing  a  young  handful  down  the 
unwilling  throat  of  the  Hun.  "Tickle  his  larynx, 
Dick,"  he  murmured,  "and  mind  he  don't  bite." 

And  the  only  thing  which  gives  them  any  specula- 
tion is  whether  eight  tablets  were  enough,  a  point  which 
causes  the  medical  profession  to  grin — noncommittally. 

At  eight  o'clock  they  emerged  and  sought  the 
entrance  shaft. 

"Pray  the  Powers,  Dick,  it's  in  the  front  line," 
remarked  Strickland;  "and  for  Heaven's  sake — what- 
ever happens — keep  your  mouth  shut  and  don't  swear." 

"Yah,"  grunted  Brandsby.  "Likewise  Nein.  Let's 
get  on  with  it." 

Luck  was  with  them.  The  shaft  came  up  into  the 
front  line,  and  as  they  clambered  out  into  the  night 
they  found  the  trench  deserted.  From  round  the 
next  traverse  they  heard  voices,  and  the  next  moment 
a  machine  gun  started  firing  from  the  same  place.  Of 
course  Joe  Strickland  was  mad — he  always  has  been 
and  always  will  be — but  the  maddest  thing  he  ever  did, 
he  did  then.  Instead  of  going  the  other  way  to  the 
tock-tock  of  that  machine  gun,  he  slouched  round 
the  traverse  towards  it.  Brandsby  couldn't  stop  him, 


212  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

so  Brandsby  had  to  follow.     At  least,  so  Brandsby 
says,  though  Joe  accuses  him  of  egging  him  on. 

There  were  two  machine  gunners  hating,  distinctly 
bored  with  the  entertainment,  and  for  a  little  while 
two  .dissolute  looking  ruffians  watched  them :  ruffians 
clad  in  German  uniforms  of  which  one  was  stained 
and  torn  in  front,  and  the  other  was  stained  and  torn, 
behind. 

"Yah  and  likewise  Nein,"  grunted  Brandsby  once 
again.  "Let's  get  on  with  it." 

"I  insist,"  remarked  Joe,  when  they  had  finished, 
"on  taking  this  machine  gun  away.  It  will  do,  as  a 
table  centre." 

"Right,"  returned  Brandsby.  "But  if  I'm  going  to 
catch  my  boat,  we  must  be  going — at  once." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  a  perplexed  platoon  com- 
mander found  himself  confronted  by  two  large  Huns 
carrying  a  machine  gun,  and  guarded  closely  by  a  fierce 
looking  lance-corporal  with  a  bayonet. 

"Two  deserters,  sir,"  he  reported.  "Shall  I  take 
them  to  'ead-quarters?" 

"Do  you  speak  English?"  The  subaltern  looked 
fierce. 

"Yah  and  likewise  Nein,"  said  Brandsby.  "And  if 
I  miss  my  boat,  young  fellow  me  lad,  may  the  Lord 
have  mercy  upon  you." 

"Great  Scott!"  gasped  the  subaltern.  "What 
damned  insolence." 

"Cheese  it !"  said  the  lance-corporal.  "Quick  march 
— yer  blighters." 


GALLERY  NO.  31  213 

It  was  just  as  well  I  happened  to  be  at  Headquar- 
ters when  the  party  arrived. 

"Two  Germans,  who  say  they're  English,"  cried  the 
Colonel.  "Hi,  you!  get  out  of  this  dugout,  you  swab." 

We  looked  up  to  see  one  of  the  revolting  ruffians 
peering  in  at  the  door.  He  had  a  machine  gun  under 
his  arm,  and  was  grinning.  Then  he  saw  me,  and 
he  grinned  still  more." 

"The  champagne  was  good,  the  caviare  was  excel- 
lent; but  the  baccarat,  I  grieve  to  say,  was  poor,"  he 
murmured  gently. 

"Good  Lord!  Joe!"  I  gasped.  "I've  already  writ- 
ten a  letter  stating  how  gallantly  you  died." 

"I'll  take  it,  old  dear,"  said  the  voice  of  Dick  Brands- 
by,  "by  the  leave  boat  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    BOOBY-TRAP 

THE  trouble  is  that  in  War  retribution  so  rarely 
comes  on  the  man  who  deserves  it.  The  thing 
is  such  an  impersonal  affair:  shells,  trench  mortars, 
and  rifle  bullets  slay  or  miss  impartially,  and  there  are 
so  many  pawns  the  less  to  carry  on  the  good  work. 
Even  the  bayonet  cannot  be  said  to  settle  any  long- 
standing feud:  the  gentleman  who  dies  and  the  gen- 
tleman who  kills  him  are  really  complete  strangers. 
Very  annoyed  with  one  another  undoubtedly;  but 
there  is  no  question  of  the  grievance  being  an  old  one. 

And  so,  when  some  act  of  poetic  justice  is  done,  it 
is  apt  to  impress  itself  forcibly  on  the  memory.  They 
are  very  rare,  those  acts :  opportunities  are  few  and  far 
between.  But  sometimes  they  do,  and  .  .  .  However, 
this  was  the  way  of  one  such  occasion. 

The  name  of  the  village  is  immaterial.  It  lies  in 
the  country  evacuated  by  the  Hun  during  February 
and  March  of  1917,  and  it  is  not  yet  marked  on  the 
small-scale  maps.  For  the  beginning  of  the  affair 
one  must  go  back  to  a  certain  night  in  March,  twenty- 
one  days  after  the  Germans  had  gone.  They  had 
left  it,  as  they  left  most  of  the  villages  in  that  district, 

214 


THE  BOOBY-TRAP  215 

destroyed  but  not  gutted.  The  trees  were  cut,  the 
little  bits  of  garden  were  ruined,  and  the  inhabitants 
bore  in  their  eyes  the  hopeless  despair,  the  frozen 
apathy,  of  those  who  have  been  down  into  the  pit. 
Old  and  decrepit — for  of  their  children  none  save 
babies  remained — they  sat  about  round  the  doors  of 
their  ruined  houses,  hardly  speaking,  just  watching 
and  wondering.  To  them  had  come  the  desolation 
of  War,  in  full  measure  pressed  down  and  running 
over,  and  the  poor  old  tired  brains  could  scarcely  grasp 
it.  The  fruit  of  years,  a  whole  life's  work  gone — fin- 
ished; and  no  one  to  build  it  up  again.  Just  them 
and  a  few  little  children — and  desolation.  Old  men 
would  mutter  of  soixante-dix  \  old  wives  would  shake 
their  heads,  wiping  their  eyes  furtively  with  their 
aprons :  the  babies  would  stare  solemnly  and  fearfully 
at  the  khaki  soldiers  who  had  replaced  the  field  grey. 
For  the  spirit  of  Death  does  not  leave  those  who  live 
with  it  in  a  moment.  .  .  . 

Now,  in  this  particular  village,  on  the  day  in  ques- 
tion, were  the  headquarters  of  two  battalions  of  in- 
fantry. The  battalions  in  question  were  the  Royal 
Loamshires  and  the  South  Devons,  and  from  time  im- 
memorial the  Loamshires  and  the  South  Devons  had 
been  friends.  In  the  days  before  the  war  this  friend- 
ship manifested  itself  in  many  ways,  which  it  were, 
perhaps,  indiscreet  to  mention.  There  was  the  occa- 
sion, for  instance,  when  a  battalion  of  the  Loamshires, 
homeward  bound  after  many  years  abroad,  stopped  for 
the  night  at  a  certain  port  of  call  where  a  battalion 


2i6  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

of  the  South  Devons  had  its  temporary  residence. 
And  there  was  a  dinner  to  mark  the  happy  occasion. 

It  has  been  handed  on,  the  account  of  that  dinner, 
in  the  archives  of  both  these  famous  regiments.  The 
unfortunate  mishap  which  caused  a  distinguished  gen- 
eral, specially  invited  for  the  occasion,  to  be  greeted 
with  an  over-ripe  melon  in  the  chest  just  as  he  entered 
the  ante-room;  the  sudden  disappearance  of  the  vis- 
iting colonel  as  he  was  making  his  fourth  speech  owing 
to  his  being  torpedoed  by  an  enterprising  officer  under 
the  table;  the  celebrated  feat  of  a  subaltern  who  rode 
his  bicycle  five  times  round  the  billiard-table  while 
other  enthusiasts  tried  to  poke  him  off  with  cues — all 
these  and  many  like  bonds  to  friendship  occurred  that 
night  and  on  other  gala  occasions. 

So  it  is  not  surprising  that  such  a  regimental  tra- 
dition, founded  and  cemented  in  times  of  peace,  should 
endure  in  the  stress  of  war,  and  be  passed  on  to  the 
Service  battalions  for  guidance  and  future  action. 
Owing  to  circumstances  beyond  our  control,  ripe  mel- 
ons and  billiard-tables  are  no  longer  available;  but 
much  may  be  done  in  the  local  estaminet  where  the 
omelette  is  good  and  the  red  wine  better — where 
Madame's  coffee  is  superb  and  the  Benedictine  com- 
forting. Moreover,  the  two  battalions  with  which  we 
are  concerned  were  quite  alive  to  that  fact. 

Their  friendship,  however,  did  not  prevent  the 
really  serious  matters  of  life  being  taken  with  due 
solemnity.  When  a  move  was  contemplated,  the  rival 
billeting  officers  became  for  the  time  sworn  enemies. 
They  vied  with  one  another  in  lying  and  contumely 


THE  BOOBY-TRAP  217 

to  obtain  the  best  accommodation  for  their  own  people, 
and  the  state  of  the  score  at  the  time  showed  that  the 
South  Devons  were  two  up.  That  last  point  had  ran- 
kled dreadfully  with  Finlayson,  of  the  Loamshires: 
he  swore  that  it  was  entirely  due  to  the  Town  Mayor 
of  the  place  where  it  occurred  being  soft  in  the  head : 
he  swore — many  things,  but  the  fact  remained  he  was 
two  down.  And  so  when  he  discovered  the  battalion's 
destination,  and  further  elicited  from  the  Staff  cap- 
tain that  they  might  be  there  anything  from  one  hour 
to  four  days — the  Staff  captain  disliked  being  a  false 
prophet — he  again  swore.  He  swore  a  mighty  vow 
that  if  Tremayne,  of  the  South  Devons,  again  did 
him  down  in  the  race  for  billets — which,  in  this  case, 
were  likely  to  prove  even  more  sketchy  than  usual — 
thereby  making  the  score  three  up,  he  personally  would 
murder  him  with  his  own  hand.  Then  he  went  and 
dined  with  him  and  discussed  "Blighty." 

By  what  vile  deceit  he  succeeded  is  neither  here 
nor  there.  AU  that  is  known  officially  is  that  Tre- 
mayne approached  the  village  some  half  an  hour  after 
Finlayson  had  arrived,  and  that  he  looked  thoughtful. 
Occasionally  his  lips  moved — it  is  to  be  assumed  in 
silent  prayer;  occasionally  he  raised  a  protesting  hand 
to  heaven  and  jabbered  feverishly.  He  was  met  on 
the  outskirts  by  Finlayson,  smoking  a  fat  cigar  and 
smiling  offensively. 

"Good  ride,  dear  old  boy?  I'm  afraid  you'll  find 
the  billeting  accommodation  a  bit  limited." 

Tremayne  dismounted  in  silence.  "James,"  he  re- 
marked, slowly,  "I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  of  you. 


218  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

After  all  these  years,  to  treat  me  thus — me,  your  almost 
brother!  Why,  you  damned  old  scoundrel!  .  .  ." 

Finlayson  held  up  a  protesting  hand.  "This  lan- 
guage grieves  me  to  the  quick,  Peter.  And  the  score 
is  now  one." 

They  stopped  in  front  of  the  only  decent-looking 
house  in  the  village,  and  Tremayne  inspected  it  with 
a  professional  eye.  "Two  windows,  no  door,  a  leaking 
roof.  Great  Scott !  Old  boy,  I  suppose  that  is  where 
we've  got  to  go  ?" 

But  Finlayson  was  not  to  be  drawn.  "Not  so, 
Peter,"  he  answered;  "that  is  where  we  have  gone. 
Yours  is  far  worse — just  down  the  road  here.  You 
haven't  got  a  window  at  all!" 

"Do  you  really  mean  this  is  the  next  best?"  Tre- 
mayne demanded,  when  he  had  fully  explored  the 
second  selection  down  the  road.  "The  bally  place  is 
a  series  of  holes  indifferently  held  together  by  plas- 
ter!" 

"I've  had  a  good  look  round,  and  you  won't  find 
anything  better."  Finlayson  gently  fell  through  the 
wall  he  was  leaning  against  and  swore,  while  Tremayne 
pondered  pessimistically.  Under  the  rules  of  the  game 
they  did  one  another  down  only  in  so  far  as  to  who  got 
the  first  pick.  After  that  the  second  would  be  chosen 
by  the  conqueror  with  punctilious  care  and  held  against 
all  comers  till  his  rival  should  arrive. 

"I  would  like,"  murmured  Tremayne,  when  the  other 
emerged  from  the  debris,  "to  catch  the  Hun  that  did 
this." 


THE  BOOBY-TRAP  219 

"We  have  got  a  kitchen  of  sorts,"  spluttered  Fin- 
layson,  at  length,  "so  you'd  better  all  lunch  with  us." 

And  this  occurred  on  the  twentieth  day  after  the 
Germans  had  gone.  On  the  twenty-first  the  two  bat- 
talions were  still  there.  The  Staff  captain  had  ar- 
rived— principally  to  find  how  the  score  stood — and 
had  left  again.  The  sapper  commanding  the  field  com- 
pany had  arrived  ostensibly  to  find  if  he  could  help 
anybody — in  reality,  to  cadge  lunch.  The  men,  stroll- 
ing aimlessly  about,  were  fraternising  with  the  inhab- 
itants; and  over  the  village  there  brooded  an  air  of 
peace.  The  guns  were  more  or  less  silent,  and  not 
too  near;  the  aeroplanes  seemed  to  be  taking  a  day 
off,  when — of  a  sudden,  it  occurred. 

A  rumbling,  shaking  roar;  a  great  sheet  of  flame, 
and  a  belching  cloud  of  dust ;  a  rending  sort  of  crash, 
as  timbers  and  walls  were  torn  asunder ;  the  sound  as 
of  a  mighty  hailstorm,  as  bricks  and  rubble  came  rain- 
ing down  into  the  street;  and  it  was  over.  The  head- 
quarters of  the  Royal  Loamshires  had  ceased  to  exist. 
The  house  had  disappeared,  and  in  its  place  there  hung 
a  thick  cloud  of  acrid  smoke. 

Mortimer,  the  C.O.  of  the  South  Devons,  who  was 
just  preparing  for  his  afternoon  siesta,  dashed  into 
the  road,  colliding  with  his  adjutant  and  Tremayne. 

"What  the  devil  was  that?"  he  cried,  only  to  stop 
abruptly  and  stare  at  the  slowly-drifting  pall  of  smoke. 
"My  God !  What's  happened  ?" 

From  all  directions  men  had  come  into  the  street, 
out  of  houses  and  barns,  to  see  what  had  occurred. 
There  had  been  no  whine  of  a  big  shell;  in  the  sky 


220  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

above  there  was  no  sign  of  an  aeroplane;  and  yet  a 
house  had  suddenly  disappeared,  and  bits  of  it  were 
still  coming  down,  hitting  the  ground  with  a  vicious 
thud. 

Tremayne  was  the  first  to  recover  himself  and  walk 
up  the  village  street  towards  the  scene  of  the  disaster. 
The  roof  had  been  completely  blown  off,  and  of  the 
outside  walls  nothing  except  a  few  jagged  splinters 
remained.  A  great  mass  of  broken  bricks  and  rubble 
blocked  the  near  side  of  the  road,  filling  the  bottom 
story  of  the  house;  and,  even  as  he  approached,  a  big 
lump  of  brickwork  broke  off  from  the  top  of  a  still 
standing  corner  and  narrowly  escaped  braining  him 
as  it  fell. 

But  this  was  no  time  to  worry  about  trifles  of  that 
sort.  Only  half  an  hour  previously  had  he  been  lunch- 
ing there  with  Finlayson  and  the  C.O.  and  adjutant 
of  the  Loamshires.  The  doctor  had  been  there,  and 
the  interpreter,  and  two  or  three  other  pals.  Only, 
as  I  say,  that  had  been  half  an  hour  ago. 

Tremayne  clambered  up  over  the  heap  of  debris, 
and  almost  at  once  he  saw  what  caused  him  to  curse 
savagely — an  arm  stuck  out  from  the  top.  He  hurled 
away  the  bricks  which  covered  the  rest  from  view  and 
recognised  what  he  found  by  the  badges  on  the  uni- 
form; it  was  the  doctor.  Then  he  cursed  again  and 
turned  to  the  colonel,  who  was  standing  in  the  road 
behind. 

"We  want  a  fatigue-party,  sir,"  he  said.  "I've 
found  the  doctor,  and  I'm  afraid  they're  all  in  here, 
buried." 


THE  BOOBY-TRAP  221 

The  colonel  nodded,  and  gave  a  brief  order  to  his 
adjutant.  Then  he  turned  to  the  field  company  officer 
beside  him.  "What  the  devil  do  you  think  did  it?" 
he  asked. 

"No  shell,  no  aeroplane;  it  can  only  have  been  one 
thing. "  The  sapper  officer  thoughtfully  studied  the 
wreckage.  "No  shell  except  the  very  biggest  could 
have  made  such  a  mess,  and  every  one  would  have 
heard  it  coming.  No  aeroplane  bomb  could  have  done 
it  either.  The  Huns,  before  they  left,  laid  a  delay- 
action  mine  under  the  house,  and  it's  just  gone  off." 

"But  it's  twenty  days,  my  dear  chap!"  objected 
Tremayne,  who  had  joined  them  and  heard  the  last 
remark. 

"With  a  little  ingenuity  you  could  arrange  a  delay- 
action  mine  for  twenty-one  weeks,"  returned  the 
engineer.  "A  question  of  acid  eating  through  wire 
— connection  being  made  when  the  wire  severs. 
That's  only  one  of  many  ways,  and  the  time  would 
depend  entirely  on  the  strength  of  the  acid  and  the 
thickness  of  the  wire.  They  knew  this  village  would 
be  occupied;  they  knew  that  that  house,  being  the 
best  available,  would  be  occupied  by  an  officers'  mess. 
And  the  swine  have  drawn  a  winner." 

In  silence  they  watched  the  salvage  operations, 
which  were  being  directed  by  the  adjutant. 

"Just  to  think  of  the  rotten  luck  of  the  thing!" 
burst  out  Tremayne  suddenly.  "Poor  old  Jimmy 
Finlayson — so  damned  pleased  at  having  got  the  bulge 
on  me  and  got  this  house.  And  now  this  happens! 
By  Jove !  There  is  the  dear  chap  now !" 


222  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

He  went  to  help  two  of  the  men  who  were  carrying 
into  the  road  all  that  was  left  of  Finlayson,  billeting 
officer  of  the  Royal  Loamshires. 

"Carefully,  boys,"  said  Tremayne.  "Lay  him  down 
there  beside  the  doctor."  For  a  while  he  looked  at 
his  dead  friend  in  silence,  and  then  he  bent  down  and 
covered  up  his  face  with  a  handkerchief.  "If,"  he 
remarked  quietly  to  the  sapper  officer,  "I  was  ever 
privileged  to  meet  the  man  who  ordered  that  mine  to 
be  laid,  he  would  die — nastily.  Unfortunately,  those 
things  don't  happen  except  in  stories." 

"No,"  replied  the  sapper.     "I'm  afraid  they  don't/' 

Now  we  come  to  what  happened  on  the  twenty- 
second  day  in  that  little  village  in  the  evacuated  area. 
The  ball  was  started  rolling  during  a  stroll  which 
Tremayne  and  the  adjutant  took  before  lunch.  To 
all  outward  appearance  the  village  was  normal  again; 
tragedies,  however  sudden,  lose  much  of  their  sting 
when  they  happen  in  the  Land  of  the  Great  Tragedy. 
At  intervals  heaps  of  brickwork  from  the  tottering 
walls  slithered  down  on  the  pave  below,  raising  a  little 
cloud  of  dust ;  at  intervals  some  old  peasant  would  look 
with  quavering  eyes  at  the  ruin  by  the  corner  and 
mumble  foolishly  to  his  wife.  To  them  it  was  all  part 
and  parcel  of  the  whole  scheme  of  things — just  one 
more  of  the  upheavals  in  which  they  had  lived  for 
the  past  two  years.  Stray  limbers  still  clattered  down 
the  street;  limbers  whose  drivers  never  turned  their 
heads  to  look  at  the  heap  of  rubbish  as  they  passed  it. 
Similar  heaps  were  too  common  to  excite  even  the 


THE  BOOBY-TRAP  223 

most  casual  remark.  Lorries  jolted  on  their  way  un- 
heeding; despatch-riders,  in  their  khaki  overalls, 
rushed  past  on  bumping  motor-bicycles;  the  normal 
life  of  France  six  miles  behind  the  line,  which  must  not 
be  dislocated  even  for  a  second,  carried  on  as  usual. 

Tremayne  and  the  adjutant  came  to  the  end  of  the 
village,  and  paused  for  a  moment  in  front  of  the  last 
house.  In  silence  they  glanced  at  the  fruit-trees,  each 
with  the  usual  ring  cut  round  it;  with  a  cynical  smile 
they  noticed  the  little  bit  of  garden  systematically  and 
thoroughly  destroyed. 

"By  George,"  remarked  the  adjutant  thoughtfully, 
"those  swine  are  thorough!  They  make  a  business 
of  it,  at  any  rate.  What  would  you  give,  Peter,  to 
do  this  to  them  in  Germany?" 

"We  will,  some  day."  Tremayne  was  always  an 
optimist.  "Always  provided  the  peace  swine  at  home 
are  deleted  from  the  book  of  the  words.  But,  to  come 
to  more  intimate  details,  Ginger,  this  house  looks  to 
me  a  great  deal  better  than  the  one  we're  in  at  present. 
It  has,  at  any  rate,  a  window — and  a  door.  Let  us 
explore." 

He  pushed  open  the  gate,  and,  followed  by  the 
adjutant,  walked  into  the  front  room.  It  was  bare 
and  mouldering,  but  the  walls  were  intact,  and  so  was 
the  window. 

"Not  so  bad!"  exclaimed  the  adjutant.  "With  a 
fire  and  a  tot  of  rum.  By  Jove,  old  boy,  look  at  this! 
What  about  that  for  a  mess-room  ?" 

Tremayne  peered  over  his  shoulder  as  he  stood  in 
the  open  doorway  of  the  room  behind.  It  was  a 


224  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

typical  French  kitchen,  with  old  wood  rafters  and 
big  stove  all  complete.  In  the  centre  was  a  table,  with 
four  or  five  chairs,  and  the  remains  of  a  meal,  covered 
thickly  with  dust,  were  scattered  about.  Some  Ger- 
man equipment  was  thrown  in  a  corner,  along  with 
a  few  books,  and  close  by  the  door  there  stood  several 
bottles  of  beer.  The  room  gave  the  appearance  of 
having  been  suddenly  left.  All  the  chairs  were 
pushed  back  from  the  table  just  as  they  would  have 
been  had  their  occupants  suddenly  risen  and  not  re- 
turned. The  beer  in  the  glasses  was  half  drunk,  the 
food  on  the  plates  was  not  finished;  and,  as  a  crown- 
ing touch,  there  hung  on  the  wall  a  first-class  speci- 
men of  a  Prussian  Guardsman's  helmet. 

"They  seem  to  have  left  in  a  hurry/'  remarked 
Tremayne,  after  a  long  inspection.  "And  that  looks 
to  me  quite  a  pleasing  specimen  of  helmet." 

"Which,  for  God's  sake,  don't  touch!"  The  sud- 
den voice  from  behind  made  him  swing  round,  and 
there,  framed  in  the  doorway,  stood  the  sapper  officer. 
Tremayne's  hand  dropped  to  his  side,  and  he  looked 
at  the  engineer  stupidly. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean,  old  boy?"  he  said 
at  length.  "It's  a  damned  nice  helmet." 

"Quite  too  nice  to  have  been  left  here,  however 
hzjrried  the  departure,"  rejoined  the  other.  "Of 
course  I  may  be  wrong,  but  you  know  what  happened 
yesterday." 

"Good  Lord!  Do  you  mean  that  this  house  may 
be  mined,  too?"  cried  the  adjutant. 

But  the  sapper  took  no  notice.     Standing  on  a  chair, 


THE  BOOBY-TRAP  225 

with  his  cheek  pressed  against  the  wall,  he  was  peering 
behind  the  helmet.  It  was  hanging  by  the  strap  on 
a  big  nail,  so  that  the  bottom  of  the  helmet  was 
against  the  wall,  and  the  top  swung  out  about  an  inch 
from  the  head  of  the  nail.  For  a  few  seconds  he 
examined  it,  and  then  he  smiled  gently. 

"From  a  professional  and  from  an  artistic  point 
of  view,  I  congratulate  the  bird  who  did  this.  By 
Jove,  Peter,  my  boy,  the  South  Devons  very  nearly 
lost  their  adjutant  and  their  billeting  officer  this 
morning." 

"What  do  you  mean,  sapper?"  The  adjutant  was 
smoking  a  little  faster  than  usual. 

"That  is  about  the  best  booby-trap  I've  heard 
of  yet."  The  engineer  produced  a  pair  of  wire- 
cutters  from  his  pocket,  and  they  watched  him  insert 
them  carefully  behind  the  helmet.  There  was  a  snip, 
and  they  saw  him  lift  the  helmet  off  gingerly.  Then 
he  got  down  off  the  chair,  and  laid  it  on  the  table. 
"Very  neat — very  neat,  indeed!" 

"What's  neat?"  snapped  Tremayne.  "You  bally 
specialists  are  so  confoundedly  cold-blooded." 

The  sapper  grinned. 

"You  see  that  wire  sticking  out  of  the  wall  there 
below  the  nail?  That's  the  wire  I  cut — you  can  see 
the  base  end  of  it  here  made  fast  to  the  helmet.  Now 
that  helmet  was  hung  by  its  strap,  and  its  top  was 
away  from  the  nail.  Supposing  you  had  lifted  it  off, 
Peter,  from  the  floor,  you  would  have  caught  hold  of 
the  lower  part,  and  in  doing  so  would  have  pulled  it 


226  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

away  from  the  wall.  The  helmet  would  have  pivoted 
round  the  strap,  and  the  top  part  would  have  gone 
nearer  the  wall — would  have  touched  the  nail,  in  fact 
After  that  the  subsequent  proceedings  would  have 
interested  you  no  more." 

"You  mean  that  the  helmet  touching  the  nail  would 
have  completed  the  circuit,"  remarked  Tremayne. 

"Precisely.  And  the  quickest  way  at  the  present 
moment  in  which  you  could  deprive  his  Majesty's 
Army  of  the  services  of  three  particularly  brilliant 
officers  would  be  to  touch  the  nail  with  the  end  of  the 
wire  sticking  out  of  the  wall." 

"Thank  you;  it's  all  very  interesting."  Tremayne's 
face  was  set  and  hard.  "Why  can't  the  damned 
swine  fight  like  gentlemen?" 

"For  the  very  good  reason  that  they  don't  know 
how  a  gentleman  fights."  The  sapper  rose  and 
stretched  himself.  "I  will  just  remove  a  little  more 
of  that  wire  to  make  things  safe,  and  then  I  shall  have 
no  objection  to  lunching  with  you." 

"But  you  aren't  going  to  leave  the  place  full  of  ex- 
plosive, are  you?"  The  adjutant  paused  at  the  door 
in  surprise. 

"My  minions  shall  deal  with  the  matter  this  after- 
noon," answered  the  engineer.  "Everything  is  quite 
safe,"  he  continued,  as  they  passed  into  the  street. 
"There's  no  delay  action  about  this  like  yesterday. 
It's  just  a  booby-trap  pure  and  simple." 

"Which  unpleasantly  nearly  caught  the  booby,"  re- 
marked Tremayne  quietly.  "It's  devilish  lucky,  old 


THE  BOOBY-TRAP  227 

man,   that  you  were  going  round  when  you  were. 

Otherwise " 

But  it  was  unnecessary  to  finish  the  alternative. 


Despite  all  assurances  on  the  part  of  the  engineer 
officer,  the  headquarters  of  the  South  Devons  declined, 
as  one  man,  to  move  their  residence. 

"It  may/'  remarked  the  C.O.,  "be  all  that  you  say 
and  more,  but  I  personally  decline  to  chance  it." 

"Right-ho,  sir!"  laughed  the  sapper.  'The  stuff 
is  all  removed,  but  if  you  don't  like  the  idea " 

"I  do  not!"  answered  the  colonel  firmly.  "I  am 
of  a  nervous  disposition,  and  I  grow  more  frightened 
daily.  I  refuse  to  place  my  valise  in  a  munition 
works." 

It  was  the  following  morning,  and  the  two  men 
were  standing  outside  the  door  of  the  South  Devons' 
mess. 

"It's  a  dirty  method  of  fighting,"  went  on  the  C.O. 
after  a  moment.  "Poor  old  Gray  son" — he  men- 
tioned the  late  colonel  of  the  Loamshires — "and 
Finlayson,  and  all  those  others.  And  yesterday,  but 
for  the  grace  of  God,  and  you  being  there,  Tre- 
mayne  and  Hugh."  He  stopped,  and  stared  thought- 
fully down  the  road.  "Hallo,  some  prisoners!  And 
an  officer,  too.  Wonder  what  he  is?" 

"I  think  he's  an  engineer,"  answered  the  sapper, 
inspecting  the  uniform.  "Let's  ask  him." 

Six  shambling  Huns,  with  a  morose  and  scowling 
officer  at  their  head,  came  to  a  halt  in  front  of  the 


228  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

colonel,  and  the  escort,  a  young  and  grinning  Tommy, 
saluted. 

"Told  to  bring  this  little  bunch  'ere,  sir,"  he 
remarked.  "  'E  ain't  'arf  a  little  pet,  that  there  one 
in  front." 

"Told  to  bring  them  here?"  said  the  colonel. 
"But  they  ought  to  go  on  to  Brigade  or  Division. 
There's  no  cage  here." 

The  Tommy  scratched  his  head  and  looked  blank. 
"This  is  where  they  said,  sir,"  he  repeated.  "I 
don't  know  my  way,  sir,  neither,  not  no  farther  .  .  ." 

"All  right,  lad.  I'll  take  them  over  from  you. 
Hand  them  over  to  the  sergeant-major,  and  the 
adjutant  will  sign  your  receipt." 

"Come  on,  yer  little  bundles  of  beauty!"  The 
Tommy  sloped  arms,  and  the  party  was  preparing 
to  move  off,  when  the  officer  stepped  forward. 

All  the  time  the  colonel  was  speaking  his  eyes 
had  been  roving  up  and  down  the  street  of  the  village. 
Once,  when  he  caught  the  sapper  looking  at  him 
fixedly,  he  had  scowled  furtively  and  immediately 
turned  away.  He  was  a  man  of  striking  appearance, 
tall  and  broad,  with  a  long  red  scar  running  across 
his  right  cheek.  He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  hide 
that  scar  by  turning  up  the  collar  of  his  greatcoat 
and  getting  well  inside  it;  but  whenever  he  moved 
or  turned  his  head  the  top  of  it  showed  above  his 
uniform. 

"I  would  request,"  he  said  in  a  harsh  voice,  "to 
be  separated  from  the  soldiers,  and  sent  on  at  once." 

"You   will  be   sent   on   when    I   wish,"    answered 


THE  BOOBY-TRAP  229 

the  colonel,  "and  when  it  is  convenient  for  me  to 
send  an  escort  to  take  you.  You  are  an  engineer 
officer,  are  you  not?" 

"I  am;  and  I  desire " 

But  he  got  no  further  with  the  statement  of  his 
wishes.  In  speaking,  he  had  thrown  back  his  head, 
so  that  the  whole  of  the  scar  was  visible,  and  im- 
mediately an  excited  clamouring  broke  out  in  the 
little  crowd  of  villagers  and  children  which  had  col- 
lected. A  score  of  fingers  were  pointed  accusingly 
at  the  mark  on  his  face,  and  everybody  talked  at 
once. 

"There  seems  to  be  some  slight  upheaval,"  re- 
marked the  sapper,  glancing  first  at  the  scowling 
officer  and  the  six  impassive  soldiers  behind  him,  and 
then  at  the  gesticulating  villagers.  "I  will  elucidate." 

It  was  not  a  rapid  matter,  that  elucidation.  The 
crowd  were  all  very  anxious  to  speak,  and  proceeded 
to  do  so  at  the  tops  of  their  voices  and  at  the  same 
time.  But  at  last  one  fact  emerged  from  the  general 
din — a  fact  which  caused  the  elucidator  to  become 
extremely  thoughtful. 

"They  say,  sir,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  colonel, 
"that  this  officer  lived  in  this  village  for  nearly  two 
months  just  before  the  Germans  left.  They  recog- 
nise that  scar." 

"I  don't  quite  see  what  the  devil  all  the  excitement 
is  about,  even  if  he  did,"  answered  the  colonel.  "It 
merely  seems  a  strange  coincidence." 

"Yes.  But  they  say  he  lived  in  the  house  where 
the  Loamshires  were."  The  two  men  looked  at  one 


23o  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

another,  and  a  light  dawned  slowly  in  the  colonel's 
face. 

"The  deuce,  he  did!  And  the  blighter  is  an 
engineer. " 

"As  you  say — the  blighter  is  an  engineer." 

They  had  been  speaking  in  an  undertone,  but  now 
the  colonel  turned  to  the  German  officer. 

"They  say  that  you  were  billeted  in  this  village 
before  you  evacuated  it." 

"I  was." 

"They  say,  moreover,  that  you  lived  in  the  house 
up  there,  which  you  now  see  is  a  heap  of  bricks." 

For  one  moment  and  one  moment  only  there 
flashed  across  the  German's  face  a  look  of  triumph; 
then  it  resumed  its  look  of  morose  sullenness. 

"I  was;  I  suppose  it  has  since  been  hit  by  a  shell." 

The  colonel  was  about  to  speak  again  when  the 
sapper  caught  his  arm. 

"Send  him  away,  sir!"  he  whispered.  "Send  him 
away,  but  keep  him  in  the  village  for  a  bit.  I've 
had  a  brain-storm." 

For  a  moment  the  colonel  hesitated. 

"Didn't  you  see  that  look  on  the  swine's  face,'* 
urged  the  sapper,  "when  he  saw  what  had  happened. 
I  know  he's  the  man — I'm  absolutely  certain  of  it!" 

"Still,  what  the  devil  can  we  do?"  The  colonel 
was  still  in  doubt.  "Even  if  he  is " 

The  sapper  interrupted  him. 

"Of  course  we  can  do  nothing,  sir;  of  course  not. 
But  it  would  be  nice  to  know  for  certain;  very  nice 
to  know."  He  was  looking  straight  at  the  Hun  as 


THE  BOOBY-TRAP  231 

he  spoke,  and  he  was  thinking  of  the  doctor  of  the 
Loamshires.  The  doctor  had  been  a  great  pal  of  his. 

"Take  'em  away,"  said  the  colonel  to  the  escorting 
Tommy.  'Til  make  arrangements  later." 

The  party  moved  down  the  street,  and  he  turned 
to  the  sapper. 

"What's  in  your  head,  old  boy?  I'd  like  to 
string  that  swab  to  a  lamp-post;  but  I'd  like  to  do 
lots  of  things  I  can't!" 

"My  dear  colonel!"  The  other  held  up  his  hands 
jn  horror.  "The  idea  of  such  a  thing!  He  must 
be  treated  in  every  respect  like  the  gallant,  merry 
hero  that  he  is.  In — er — every  respect.  Good- 
morning,  sir.  I'll  come  and  look  you  up  in  about 
two  hours." 

To  say  that  he  winked  would  be  libellous;  his 
eyelid  fluttered  slightly,  but  it  was  entirely  due  to 
the  wind.  So  what  it  was  that  day  at  luncheon 
which  caused  the  colonel  when  he  had  finished  telling 
the  incident  to  add  a  postscript  about  "Greek  meet- 
ing Greek"  is,  I  regret  to  state,  beyond  me. 

The  meal  was  hardly  over  when  the  sapper  walked 
into  the  mess,  to  be  pounced  upon  immediately  by 
Peter  Tremayne. 

"What  have  you  found  out?"  he  cried.  "Is  that 
the  swine  who  did  it?" 

"My  dear  Peter,"  returned  the  engineer,  "you 
outrage  my  feelings.  I  have  been  engaged  in  a 
couple  of  hours  of — er — quiet  study.  In  my  branch 
of  the  army,  you  know,  continual  work  is  .  .  ." 


232  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

"Dry  up,  you  damned  fool."  Tremayne's  face 
was  set  "I'm  in  no  mood  for  fooling.  Is  that  the 
man  who  murdered  Jimmy?" 

"That  is  what  I  propose  to  find  out  now.  Not 
exactly  ordeal  by  fire,  you  know;  but  a  sort  of  re- 
construction of  the  crime.  It  might  be  amusing,  and 
it  will  clear  the  air  and  remove  doubts."  The  sapper 
lit  a  cigarette.  "I  want  you  to  interview  the  prisoner, 
colonel,  in  that  room  in  which  the  booby-trap  was 
put." 

The  South  Devons  looked  at  him  in  silence. 

"What's  the  game  ?"  remarked  the  adjutant  shortly. 

"None.  Why  should  there  be?"  He  thoughtfully 
blew  out  a  cloud  of  smoke.  "I  shall  be  there  myself, 
and  don't  be  surprised  or — er — alarmed  at  anything 
you  see  me  do." 

"What  do  I  say  to  him?"  asked  the  colonel. 

"Oh,  any  old  thing!  Ask  after  Hindenburg's 
health,  and  put  him  at  his  ease.  I  want  him  to 
think  that  you  are  using  the  place  as  your  mess. 
I  shall  come  in  after  he  is  in  the  room,  and  it  won't 
take  ten  minutes."  The  sapper  grinned  at  them 
gently.  "Shall  we  proceed?" 

They  rose  and  trooped  over  to  the  house  in  which 
the  sapper  had  found  Tremayne  and  the  adjutant 
the  preceding  day,  and  sat  down  round  the  table. 
Orders  had  already  been  sent  for  the  prisoner,  and 
in  silence  they  awaited  his  coming. 

"I  see  you've  put  the  helmet  back  in  position," 
said  Tremayne.  "I  hope  to  Heaven  you've  removed 
the  juice!" 


THE  BOOBY-TRAP  233 

"What  do  you  think,  papa?"  laughed  the  sapper. 
"In  the  words  of  an  enterprising  weekly — watch  that 
helmet!"  He  glanced  through  the  window.  "Here 
he  comes.  Watch  him,  too!" 

Now  there  rests  over  the  last  phase  of  this  episode 
of  Divine  retribution  a  certain  haziness — almost,  one 
might  say,  the  fog  of  war.  The  Hun  came  into  the 
room  and,  according  to  Tremayne,  the  click  of  his 
eyes  as  they  fastened  on  the  helmet  might  have  been 
heard  down  the  street.  But  let  me  quote  that  vera- 
cious raconteur,  as  we  got  it  later  in  the  oyster  shop 
at  Amiens: 

"There  we  all  were  sitting  round  the  table,  pre- 
tending to  toy  with  some  remnants  of  bad  sausage 
and  a  glass  of  flat  beer,  when  in  walks  Master  Hun 
with  the  escort  behind.  He  looked  round  the  room 
once  or  twice,  and  then  he  spotted  the  Guardsman's 
helmet  hanging  upon  the  wall,  just  as  it  had  been 
the  day  before.  He  got  that  helmet  transfixed  with 
such  a  gaze  that  he  didn't  even  hear  the  colonel's 
first  question,  and  you  can  bet  your  shirt  we  weren't 
missing  that  loving  look  of  his.  Seen  it  before? 
Of  course  he'd  seen  it  before.  Why,  the  swine  had 
put  it  there;  he  was  the  swab  who'd  caused  all  the 
trouble.  I  knew  it,  so  did  every  one. 

"The  play  sort  of  dragged  a  bit,  owing  to  the  Hun 
missing  his  cue  twice  in  his  conversation.  He 
couldn't  talk  and  think  about  that  helmet  at  the  same 
time,  with  the  nice  little  packet  of  trouble  which  he 
thought  was  underneath  the  floor,  and  I  was  just  on 
the  point  of  batting  in  with  a  leading  question  or 


234  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

two,  when  in  strolls  the  sapper — just  as  if  he'd  never 
seen  us  before.  The  Hun  looked  at  him  quickly  and 
he  looked  at  the  Hun — and  somehow  I  don't  think 
they  liked  one  another  very  much.  The  doctor  man 
in  the  Loamshires — Jerry  Dermot — and  the  sapper 
had  been  great  pals."  Tremayne  thoughtfully  skew- 
ered an  oyster,  and  contemplated  it. 

"However,"  he  continued,  "we  were  most  of  us 
wise  to  his  game  by  this  time,  and,  'pon  my  soul,  he 
acted  well.  Some  one  ought  to  write  a  play  round 
that  situation  as  a  plot." 

"Some  one  has,"  pessimistically  barked  an  intense 
officer  opposite,  "and  it's  been  rejected  by  every  man- 
ager in  London." 

Tremayne  looked  offended.  "Damn  it!  you  don't 
know  what  the  situation  is  yet." 

"The  point  is  immaterial,"  "  boomed  the  intense 
one  still  more  pessimistically.  "I,  personally,  have 
written  a  play  round  every  possible  and  impossible 
situation  which  can  or  cannot  occur.  They  have  all 
been  rejected  by  every  manager  in  London.  Pro- 
ceed." 

"He  passed  the  time  of  day  with  the  colonel,  and 
hoped  he  wasn't  interrupting  anything  official;  he 
murmured  inanities  about  our  having  a  nice  mess, 
and  then — he  saw  the  helmet.  Now  he  was  acting, 
and  we  were  all  acting,  and  it  says  something  for  our 
acting  that  the  Hun  never  spotted  us.  There  wasn't 
a  man  in  that  room  who  hadn't  got  one  eye  at  least 
on  that  dirty  Boche." 

Tremayne  finished  his  Chablis  savagely. 


THE  BOOBY-TRAP  235 

"The  colonel  asked  him  a  question  and  he  didn't 
answer.  He'd  got  his  eyes  set  on  the  sapper,  and 
he  couldn't  move  'em,  and  we  watched  him  sweat. 
The  sapper  strolled  up  to  that  helmet,  and  he  ex- 
amined it  from  all  angles. 

"  That's  a  damned  good  helmet/  he  remarked 
casually,  'damned  good.  Prussian  Guard,  isn't  it?' 
He  put  up  his  hand  towards  it,  and  there  was  a 
noise  like  a  stillborn  explosion  from  the  Hun.  The 
sapper  swung  round  and  looked  at  him.  'By  Jove!' 
he  cried.  'What's  the  matter?  You  look  quite 
faint.'  Then  we  all  looked  at  him  openly,  and  the 
sweat  was  pouring  off  that  man's  face  in  two  streams. 

"1  am  all  right,'  he  said  thickly;  'but  I  would 

not — I  would  not '  The  words  sort  of  died  away 

in  his  throat,  and  he  choked  a  bit. 

"The  scene  undoubtedly  has  its  dramatic  possi- 
bilities," murmured  the  intense  officer.  "It  is,  I 
believe,  an  established  fact  that  the  fear  of  death  is 
worse  than  death  itself,  though  how  the  deuce  any- 
body knows  .  .  ."  He  relapsed  into  silence. 

"We  didn't  rush  matters,"  continued  Tremayne. 
"The  sapper  came  away  from  the  helmet,  and  the 
sweat  ceased  coming  away  from  the  Hun.  Then 
he  returned  again,  and  so  did  the  sweat.  He  put 
up  his  hand  and  he  fingered  that  helmet,  and  he 
talked  casually  while  he  did  so.  I  was  sorry  for  him 
really,  because  he  missed  the  Hun's  face.  And  then, 
at  last,  he  started  to  take  it  down,  and  as  he  did  so, 
with  one  ghastly  shout  of  'Don't  touch!'  the  Hun 
leaped  for  his  arm  and  caught  it.  It  was  really 


236  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

very  fine :  a  pretty  sight.  .  .  .  Madame — encore  des 
huitres,  si'l  vous  plait."  Tremayne  looked  round  the 
circle  of  faces  and  his  eyes  were  gleaming.  .  .  . 
"The  sapper,  an  infuriated  figure  of  outraged  dig- 
nity: the  Hun  shaking  like  a  bally  jelly  and  still 
holding  his  arm. 

"  'What  the  devil  do  you  mean?'  roared  the  sap- 
per. 'Let  go  my  arm  at  once,  damn  you !' 

"The  Hun  mouthed  and  sweated,  and  we  waited. 

"  'Let  me  get  it  down  for  you/  he  got  out  at  last. 
'If  you  could  lend  me  a  pair  of  wire-cutters/  He 
paused,  and  didn't  seem  to  like  meeting  any  one's 
eye. 

"  'May  I  ask,'  said  the  sapper,  in  a  voice  you  could 
keep  the  fish  on  all  the  summer,  'why  you  require 
wire-cutters  to  take  down  a  helmet  hanging  on  the 
wall?' 

"  'The  helmet  is  secured  to  the  wall  by  a  wire/ 
stuttered  the  Hun.  'You  will  have  to  cut  it,  and  I 
thought  you  might  damage  it/ 

"  'You  know  this  room,  then — and  this  helmet?' 
The  colonel  chipped  into  the  conversation,  and  you 
know  what  his  orderly-room  voice  can  be  like. 

"  'Yes/  answered  the  German.  'When  I  was  here 
before,  I  used  this  room.' 

"  'Indeed !'  remarked  the  colonel.  'Well,  since 
the  officer  wishes  to  take  down  the  helmet  for  us,  I 
see  no  reason  against  it/ 

"In  perfect  silence  the  sapper  produced  some  wire- 
cutters,  and  handed  them  to  the  Boche,  who  clam- 
bered on  to  a  chair  and  flattened  his  cheek  against 


THE  BOOBY-TRAP  237 

the  wall  exactly  as  the  sapper  had  done  the  day 
before.  And  then  that  worthy  winked  at  us — just 
once. 

"  'It  will  help  you  if  I  pull  the  bottom  out  a  bit/ 
he  said  quietly,  and  we  saw  him  do  so.  I  put  it 
that  way  because  the  Hun  did  not.  That  helmet 
only  had  to  move  an  inch,  but  during  the  time  it 
took  to  do  it  the  Hun  moved  about  ten  yards.  Head 
first  he  dived  into  the  corner — straight  off  his  chair 
as  if  it  was  into  water.  Only,  as  it  wasn't  water 
but  a  good  stone  floor,  he  ceased  to  take  any  active 
interest  in  the  proceedings  for  the  next  ten  minutes." 

Tremayne  lit  a  cigarette. 

"When  he  came  to  again  the  helmet  was  lying  on 
the  floor  beside  him,  and  the  wall  was  blank  except 
for  the  nail,  as  it  had  been  the  whole  time.  He 
opened  his  eyes  and  peered  round,  and  from  that 
moment  no  one  of  us  spoke  a  word.  He  saw  the 
helmet — he  looked  at  the  wall;  then  he  looked  at  us, 
and — understood.  For  a  while  he  didn't  under- 
stand— he  thought  something  had  gone  wrong  with 
the  works;  but  then  suddenly  he  did.  One  could 
tell  the  moment  when  it  came  to  him,  the  certainty 
that  we  had  known  all  along;  the  realisation  that 
we  had  watched  him  sweat  with  terror  over  his  own 
dud  booby-trap,  and  finally  stun  himself  in  the  agony 
of  his  fear." 

"Did  he  say  anything?"  asked  a  cavalry  man  sitting 
opposite. 

"Not  a  word.  No  more  did  we.  We  just  watched 
him  in  silence,  and  after  a  bit  he  got  up  and  tried 


238  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

to  pull  himself  together.  Then  he  went,  with  the 
escort  behind  him,  and  that  was  the  end  of  it." 

Peter  Tremayne  got  up  and  started  to  put  on  his 
British  warm.  I  remember  he  paused  at  the  door 
for  a  moment  before  going  out. 

"I  once  saw  a  man  accused  of  cheating  at  cards 
before  a  lot  of  people — and  the  accusation  was  true. 
He  was  a  decent  fellow,  but  he  was  short  of  cash — 
and  I  have  never  forgotten  the  look  in  his  eyes. 
He  blew  his  brains  out  that  night.  I  once  saw  a 
fellow  at  school — a  great  hulking  blighter — who  was 
caught  stealing  money  red-handed.  He  came  up 
before  us  prefects,  and  I  have  not  forgotten  the  look 
in  his  eyes,  either.  And  if  you  combine  'em,  and 
multiply  'em  by  ten,  and  then  do  it  all  over  again, 
you  may  have  a  dim  idea  of  the  look  in  that  German's 
eyes  just  before  he  passed  out  of  the  picture.  So 
long,  boys;  hope  I've  not  bored  you." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  BRIDGE 

THE  Brigadier-General,  General  Staff — hereinaf- 
ter known  as  the  B.G.G.S. — was  frowning 
thoughtfully  at  the  map  spread  out  in  front  of  him. 
At  his  side,  also  frowning  thoughtfully,  stood  the  Chief 
Engineer — hereinafter  known  as  the  C.E.  From  the 
next  room  came  the  monotonous  click  of  typewriters; 
but  in  the  room  itself  there  was  silence.  In  one  corner 
at  a  table  an  intelligence  officer  was  carefully  studying 
an  aeroplane  photograph,  and  occasionally  making  al- 
terations in  a  trench  map  as  the  result  of  his  study.  In 
another  a  somewhat  harassed-looking  colonel  on  the 
Staff  was  wrestling  with  some  returns.  They  concerned 
motor  lorries,  or  raspberry  jam,  or  trench  feet;  and 
owing  to  their  surpassing  dullness  and  extreme  inac- 
curacy, the  wrestler's  feelings  finally  culminated  in  a 
loud,  explosive  "Damn."  After  which  silence  reigned 
as  before. 

"That's  the  spot,  Maitland."  The  B.G.G.S.  leaned 
forward  and  pointed  to  a  spot  on  the  map  with  his 
finger.  "There  or  thereabouts." 

The  C.E.  studied  the  map  in  silence  before  answer- 
ing. "It  would  be  better  to  have  it  half  a  mile  to 

239 


240  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

the  south,"  he  remarked  at  length.  "The  difficult  ques- 
tion will  be  as  usual — stores.  And  if  we  go  a  bit  to 
the  south,  there  may  be  some  trees  left  in  that  wood 
which  we  could  use." 

"Well,  of  course,  that's  your  palaver."  The  B.G.G.S. 
knocked  his  pipe  out  against  his  boot.  "The  approaches 
seem  equally  good  in  each  case,  and  the  only  point 
that  occurs  to  me  is  that  a  wood  is  an  excellent  thing 
for  ranging  on." 

"Wherever  the  bridge  is  put,"  returned  the  Chief 
Engineer,  "I  give  it  about  one  hour  before  every  gun 
in  the  Boche  army  is  pooping  at  it.  However,  the 
main  idea  is  quite  clear:  we  must  leave  details  to  the 
man  on  the  spot.  What  about  a  cup  of  tea?" 

Thus,  in  what  to  the  uninitiated  might  seem  a  casual 
and  airy  manner,  was  settled  the  question  of  The 
Bridge.  A  few  minutes  later  tht  B.G.G.S.,  accompa- 
nied by  the  C.E. — no  longer  frowning  thoughtfully — 
might  have  been  seen  crossing  the  old-fashioned  cob- 
bled street  on  their  way  to  the  chateau  which  served  as 
the  Corps  Head-quarters  Mess.  Inside  the  office  an 
intelligence  officer  still  carefully  studied  his  aeroplane 
photographs;  a  harassed  colonel  on  the  Staff  said 
"Damn"  more  frequently.  Moreover,  the  typewriters 
still  clicked  in  the  room  next  door.  But  there  was 
this  difference :  The  Bridge  had  been  settled.  .  .  . 

And  now  it  is  necessary  before  proceeding  farther 
to  outline  the  causes  which  led  up  to  the  bridge.  Away 
up  in  front  big  things  were  in  the  air.  Like  the  pieces 
of  a  jig-saw  puzzle,  controlled  by  the  master-brain 
which  sat  behind  and  moved  them,  great  bodies  of 


THE  BRIDGE  241 

troops  were  being  shifted  here  and  there.  At  first,  to 
the  onlooker  the  pattern  is  confused;  the  moves  seem 
aimless,  the  pieces  do  not  fit.  But  after  a  while  things 
begin  to  grow  clearer :  the  picture  commences  to  stand 
out,  the  reasons  are  no  longer  obscure.  Thus  it  is 
with  a  concentration  of  troops;  and  away  in  front 
a  concentration  was  taking  place.  Already  the  guns 
were  beginning  to  give  tongue  more  continuously;  al- 
ready a  presage  of  what  was  to  come  was  in  the  air. 
Tanks  were  appearing  and  squatting  in  fields;  lorries 
and  Decauville  railway  trucks  were  carrying  up  thou- 
sands of  rounds  of  ammunition;  something  was  in  the 
wind.  The  Boche  was  getting  jumpy,  and  trying  by 
means  of  continuous  raids  to  find  out  whether  the  real 
something  was  there,  or  farther  south,  or  both,  or 
neither.  And  still  the  hand  behind  went  on  moving 
the  pieces.  .  .  . 

That  is  the  impersonal  side  of  war — the  intellectual 
side.  The  personal  one  is  when  you  come  to  the 
pieces  themselves.  To  each  man  his  own  responsibil- 
ity :  to  the  battalion  commander  his  two  or  three  hun- 
dred yards  of  front;  to  the  Army  Service  Corps  offi- 
cer his  twenty  or  thirty  lorries;  and,  similarly,  in  this 
case,  to  one  John  McVeagh  his  bridge. 

Not  that  it  suddenly  grew  like  that.  John  did  not 
wake  up  one  morning  in  the  shell  hole  covered  with 
a  baby  elephant,1  and  realise  the  fact  that  he  was  to 
dally  with  a  bridge.  Far  from  it;  such  momentous 

1  For  the  benefit  of  the  uninitiated  it  may  be  explained  that 
a  baby  elephant  is  a  curved  steel  plate,  and  not  a  zo-ological 
specimen. 


242  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

news  arrives  more  slowly — through  devious  channels. 

It  started  on  its  downward  path  the  morning  after 
the  B.G.G.S.  and  the  C.E.  had  frowned;  and  the  first 
person  to  get  it  was  the  Commanding  Royal  Engineer 
— hereinafter  known  as  the  C.R.E. — of  the  division 
concerned. 

"Good  morning,  Draycott."  The  C.R.E.  saluted  the 
general,  and  sat  down  in  his  office.  "There's  a  mat- 
ter I  want  to  discuss  with  you,  about  this  coming 
push.  It's  the  question  of  communications  if  we  get 
our  objectives." 

"They  won't  be  too  good,  sir,  on  my  bit  of  the 
front."  The  colonel  was  studying  his  map.  "There's 
a  good  deal  of  water  in  that  big  ravine  in  front 
of  us." 

"I  know.  That's  the  point.  We'll  have  to  have  a 
bridge  made :  a  bridge  capable  of  taking  lorries." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

"That's  the  spot,"  continued  the  C.E.  after  a  mo- 
ment. "There  or  thereabouts."  He  pointed  to  the 
map.  "That  wood  might  be  of  use — so  I  suggest  mak- 
ing it  fairly  near.  But,  of  course,  such  details  must 
be  left  to  the  man  on  the  spot." 

The  C.R.E.  got  up  and  felt  for  his  cigarette  case. 
"Yes — stores  will  be  the  trouble.  However,  sir,  I'll 
see  into  it.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  was  going  to  suggest 
it  to  you  myself." 

Which  may  or  may  not  have  been  a  fact;  but  as  a 
wise  and  far-seeing  remark  it  leaves  nothing  to  be 
desired. 

The  second  step  on  the  downward  path  occurred  that 


THE  BRIDGE  243 

afternoon,  when  it  passed  from  the  C.R.E.  to  the 
Field  Company  Commander  concerned.  The  main  dif- 
ference between  that  interview  and  the  one  already 
given  is  that  the  Field  Company  Commander  cannot 
hereinafter  be  known  by  any  abbreviation.  He  re- 
mains as  he  started,  a  Major  in  the  Corps  of  Royal 
Engineers.  The  other  difference  is  that  the  matter  was 
discussed  in  very  much  greater  detail ;  but  as  technical 
details  are  of  all  things  the  most  tedious,  it  is  proposed 
to  take  them  as  read.  No  man  can  possibly  make  a 
story  out  of  a  road  bearer,  much  less  out  of  a  trestle 
leg 

Thus  did  it  get  to  John  McVeagh — the  third  step 
downwards.  And  John  McVeagh  was  a  character. 

"It's  a  bridge,  is  it,  they're  wanting,"  he  remarked, 
pulling  steadily  at  his  pipe. 

"Strong  enough  for  lorries,  John."  The  Field  Com- 
pany Commander  applied  a  match  to  his  rum  with  the 
air  of  a  connoisseur,  and  having  burned  away  the  raw- 
ness added  a  quota  of  port.  D'you  think  you  could 
make  a  nice  one  for  them  ?'  It  may  have  been  solici- 
tude for  his  rum  that  caused  him  to  bend  so  closely 
over  the  table. 

"Make  a  bridge!"  John's  tone  was  that  of  one  who 
reasons  with  a  child.  "Losh,  man,  I've  lived  with 
them.  For  the  last  ten  years — I've  slept  with  them." 

"Is  that  so,  John?"  The  twinkle  became  obvious. 
"Then  under  those  circumstances  I  think  you  might  be 
able  to  make  them  a  nice  one.  But  don't  forget  the 
calculations  this  time." 

"The  palsied  old   son  of  Anak,"   growled   John. 


244  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

'Talking  to  me  about  the  strength  of  a  transom,  for 
the  load  of  a  perambulator  over  a  yard  span." 

His  C.O.  grinned  gently  and  recalled  the  incident  in 
question.  It  had  been  John's  first  claim  to  notoriety 
on  joining  the  company,  and  its  fame  had  spread. 
There  had  been  a  little  job  to  do  which  concerned  a 
light  tramway  track,  laid  along  the  ground  up  to  the 
support  line.  Along  this  track  trolleys  were  pushed 
nightly,  with  rations  and  bombs  and  stores  inside, 
which  saved  large  carrying  parties  being  used.  And 
to  John  had  fallen  the  job. 

In  the  fullness  of  time  it  was  completed,  and  shortly 
afterwards  various  luminaries — both  great  and  small — 
made  a  tour  of  inspection.  As  it  was  quite  impossible 
to  get  out  of  the  trench  beside  which  the  track  ran 
during  the  day,  the  tour  of  necessity  became  largely 
a  matter  of  faith.  Nobody  saw  anything  until  they 
arrived  at  a  cross-trench  over  which  the  track  ran — 
supported  on  a  little  bridge.  And  by  the  little  bridge 
sat  John — peacefully  resting. 

The  day  was  warm,  the  flies  were  plentiful,  and 
there  is  no  doubt  that  on  the  subject  of  inspections 
John's  knowledge  was  not  what  it  might  be.  When 
all  is  said  and  done,  the  being  who  inspects  must  say 
something.  He  probably  dislikes  doing  so  intensely; 
but  after  all — what  is  an  inspection  for?  Wherefore, 
in  the  sunny  silence,  the  greatest  of  the  luminaries, 
who  had  previously  looked  it  up  in  the  book,  gave 
tongue. 

"Did  you — er — make  this  bridge?" 

John  got  on  his  feet  and  saluted.    To  be  exact — he 


THE  BRIDGE  245 

scratched  his  head,  which  comes  to  the  same  thing. 
"Which  bridge,  sir?" 

"Which  bridge?  That — of  course."  Plentiful  flies 
are  trying  to  the  temper. 

"Bridge!"  John  was  getting  bewildered.  "Oh!  I 
just  chucked  a  few  sticks  together  here,  sir;  that's 
all."  His  tone  was  apologetic ;  he  seemed  not  to  notice 
the  anguish  on  the  faces  of  the  lesser  luminaries. 

"D'you  mean  to  say  you  haven't  worked  out  whether 
it's  strong  enough?"  John  seemed  utterly  unconscious 
that  he  was  being  handed  the  frozen  mitt. 

"Worked  it  out?''  He  was  still  puzzled.  Not  this 
deal,  sir.  Out  in  B.C.,  if  we  want  a  bridge — we  just 
put  one  up.  It's  sort  of  natural  instinct;  and  they 
have  to  take  a  full-size  engine  and  a  load  of  coaches. 
I  guess  this  will  carry  the  raspberry  jam  all  right." 

As  I  say,  he  was  ignorant  about  the  procedure  at 
inspections.  There  is  nothing  so  annoying  to  a  lumi- 
nary who  has  come  primed  on  a  point  to  find  it  isn't 
needed.  In  fact,  if  dirty  buttons  are  a  great  one's 
bete  noir,  the  unit  commander  who  omits  to  have  one 
man  with  dirty  buttons  is  failing  in  his  duty.  Such 
a  lapse  suppresses  the  fulmination,  and  causes  irrita- 
bility. Far  better  to  get  it  over  and  have  peace.  .  .  . 

And  so  with  John.  The  proper  procedure  would 
have  been  to  fumble  in  his  pocket,  at  the  same  time 
murmuring,  "Of  course,  sir;  I  will  show  you  my  cal- 
culations." That  is  the  counter-offensive,  and  has 
never  been  known  to  fail.  Instead  of  which  the  morn- 
ing was  spoiled  for  every  one.  There  was  nothing 


246  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

more  to  be  said — it  being  quite  obvious  to  all  con- 
cerned that  a  man  who  has  made  railway  bridges 
can  with  safety  be  entrusted  with  a  thing  the  size  of  a 
match-box  to  take  jam  in  a  hand  trolley.  But  the 
principle  remained,  and  even  the  fact  that  John  had 
been  ten  years  one  of  the  big  railway  engineers  in 
Canada,  made  the  subsequent  proceedings  no  less 
melancholy. 

Which  shows,  as  the  schoolboy  essayist  has  it, 
how  careful  one  must  be,  and  also  throws  a  sidelight 
on  John.  .  .  . 

However,  all  that  concerns  us  here  is  the  fact  that 
the  making  of  the  bridge,  which  was  one  of  the  little 
pieces  in  the  jig-saw,  had  been  handed  over  to  the 
man  on  the  spot.  It  had  become  personal,  and  from 
that  moment  the  bridge  was  John  McVeagh,  and  John 
McVeagh  was  the  bridge.  And  this  was  the  way  of 
it.  ... 

Now  let  it  be  said,  clearly  and  once  for  all,  that 
this  is  no  story  with  a  plot.  There  is  nothing  in  it 
about  V.C.'s  or  widows.  It  is  just  a  plain,  unvar- 
nished account  of  one  of  war's  side-shows;  and  if 
there  is  a  bit  of  pathos  in  it,  there  is  a  bit  of  laughter 
too.  If  it  wasn't  for  the  laughter,  could  the  world 
have  stood  it  for  three  long  years?  .  .  .  The  story, 
then,  such  as  it  is,  is  merely  John.  And  John  got 
annoyed  that  day.  He  said  horrible  things  to  men  of 
great  power  in  the  land,  who  became  excited  and 
reasoned  with  him.  So  things  in  the  nature  of  V.C.'s 
were  off ;  and  as  he  is  unmarried,  so  were  widows. 


THE  BRIDGE  247 

The  infantry  popped  the  parapet  at  eight  in  the 
morning,  and,  from  a  bit  of  hill  behind,  John  watched 
them.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  got  the  view 
which  the  war  correspondent  gets — the  impersonal, 
detached  view  in  which  the  performance  spreads 
itself  out  like  a  pageant.  He  watched  the  long  lines 
of  men  walking  slowly  over  the  ground  behind  the 
reeking  smoke  and  fumes  of  the  creeping  barrage. 
They  seemed  to  be  crawling,  so  slowly  did  they  go. 
Every  now  and  then  a  shell  from  one  of  Our  own 
batteries  would  burst  amongst  them;  there  would  be 
a  sudden  ducking  and  scattering  of  the  two  or  three 
pigmies  close  by,  and  then  the  line  would  close  up 
again  and  go  on  steadily  forward. 

Perhaps  a  man  here  and  there  would  fall  with  a 
queer  little  twitching,  and  would  remain  where  he 
fell,  a  motionless  brown  lump  in  the  great  drab 
background  of  mud.  Sometimes  one  of  the  pigmies 
would  wave  his  arm  in  a  manner  which  seemed  mean- 
ingless, grotesque  at  such  a  distance;  then  he  would 
go  forward  again  with  the  other  pigmies  behind  him 
and  alongside.  And  always  in  front  there  seethed 
and  twisted  the  smoke  of  the  barrage;  always  the 
shells  roared  continuously  overhead,  like  some  great 
waterfall.  .  .  . 

A  belt  of  something,  clearly  marked  against  the 
ground,  began  to  emerge  from  the  smoke.  Torn 
and  shattered,  but  still  clear  to  the  eye,  the  Hun 
wire  came  into  sight:  their  front-line  trench,  their 
saps,  a  crater  or  two.  They  seemed  deserted  and 
dead  as  the  barrage  passed  them  by;  and  then,  sud- 


248  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

denly,  in  odd  places  other  pigmy  figures  would  ap- 
pear. Through  glasses  John  could  see  a  machine 
gun  being  rushed  up  the  side  of  a  huge  shell  hole; 
he  could  see  the  Germans  feverishly  getting  it  into 
position;  he  could  see  the  steady  line  of  khaki  walk- 
ing towards  it  in  ignorance. 

"Look  out,"  he  howled,  "in  front  of  you,  boys — 
mind  out."  Carried  away  by  excitement  he  shouted 
advice,  which  might  have  been  heard  a  yard  away  in 
the  deafening  uproar.  Then  he  realised,  and  looked 
round  self-consciously,  to  find  that  men  near  him 
were  howling  too.  He  watched  the  khaki  wave  melt 
away  in  front  of  the  gun;  he  saw  the  still  brown 
figures  lying  on  the  ground  where  a  moment  before 
they  had  been  walking,  full  of  life,  and  he  cursed. 
Savagely  and  bloodily  he  cursed,  while  a  great  Irish- 
man beside  him  half  started  forward,  with  murder 
in  his  eyes  and  murder  in  his  heart.  And  then, 
suddenly,  he  saw  a  pigmy  wave  his  hand — a  pigmy 
away  to  one  flank.  As  if  by  clockwork  four  others 
swung  left-handed,  and  John  roared.  With  his 
breath  coming  short  he  watched  'em,  as  they  stalked 
that  gun;  with  incoherent  babblings  he  saw  them 
reach  the  shell  hole  and  jump  in.  With  his  glasses 
to  his  eyes  he  saw  the  scrap — snarling  and  shouting 
as  he  lived  it  himself.  Only  one  of  the  Huns  seemed 
to  have  any  stomach  for  it,  and  he  passed  out  five 
seconds  after  the  others — on  a  bayonet.  .  .  .  As 
John  McVeagh  looked  at  the  Irishman  beside  him, 
he  laughed — laughed  like  hell.  And  the  Irishman 
laughed  too.  .  .  . 


THE  BRIDGE  249 

Thus  did  the  infantry  pass  out  of  sight.  They 
crossed  the  ravine  early  in  the  performance — the 
ravine  which  was  to  be  the  scene  of  the  bridge. 
They  topped  the  rise  in  front,  and  they  disappeared 
over  the  farther  side  to  their  final  objective.  And 
thus  do  they  pass  out  of  this  chronicle.  .  .  . 

To  John,  perhaps,  had  he  the  telling  of  it,  there 
would  be  an  epic  in  every  road  bearer,  a  poem  in 
every  joist.  After  all  it  was  his  child,  and  the 
shrapnel  that  took  three  sappers  as  they  were  lashing 
a  transom  to  one  of  the  trestle  legs  meant  a  lot  at 
the  time.  It  was  becoming  personal — that's  all.  .  .  . 
Personal  to  John.  .  .  .  And  it's  then  a  man  begins 
to  see  red,  even  if  it's  only  inanimate  material  he 
has  to  contend  with.  .  .  . 

The  first  human  touch  was  the  lead  driver  of  the 
pontoon  wagon.  This  pontoon  itself  had  been  un- 
loaded, and  on  the  wagon  had  been  stacked  various 
ropes  and  tackles  required  in  the  construction  of  the 
bridge.  John  watched  the  wagon  coming  at  a  canter 
down  the  so-called  track;  then,  with  a  lurch,  it 
swung  left-handed  and  came  bumping  and  crashing 
towards  him.  The  shelling  was  not  heavy  at  the 
time;  in  fact,  he  hoped  to  get  well  on  with  the  job 
before  it  became  so.  But  over  the  water — one  never 
knows.  He  could  see  the  lead  driver's  face — Purvis, 
a  boy  from  the  North;  he  could  see  Betty  and  Mary, 
the  two  stocky  little  mares  who  meant  more  to  Purvis 
than  father  or  mother,  straining  at' the  traces;  he 
was  just  holding  up  his  hand  as  a  signal  to  halt, 


250  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

when  with  a  sudden  screech  it  came.  John  ducked.  He 
thought  it  was  on  top  of  him — but  it  wasn't.  It  took 
the  lead  pair,  and  it  blew  them  to  pieces ;  it  took  Purvis, 
and  it  cut  him  in  two.  Quite  quickly — in  a  second — it 
happened,  and  by  the  time  the  smoke  had  cleared 
away  the  other  two  drivers — more  frightened  than 
hurt — had  sorted  themselves  out  of  the  debris. 

"Cast  off  those  traces,"  ordered  John  quietly,  "and 
pull  up  over  there.  When  you're  unloaded  go  back 
and  get  the  first  lot  of  wood." 

He  laid  a  quieting  hand  on  the  neck  of  the  off 
wheeler,  who  was  still  snorting  and  plunging,  and 
looked  quickly  at  the  two  drivers.  They  were  both 
a  little  dazed,  and  the  centre  lead  of  the  six-horse 
team — now  promoted  to  lead  in  a  four-horse — was 
mumbling  foolishly.  Considering  that  half  a  minute 
before  he  had  escaped  death  by  a  miracle  it  was 
not  to  be  wondered  at;  but — there  was  the  bridge. 
And  to  John  sucking  his  pipe  stolidly,  the  bridge  was 
the  only  thing  which  mattered. 

"Don't  forget,  my  lads,"  he  said  suddenly,  "you've 
now  got  to  do  as  much  with  four  horses  as  you 
were  going  to  do  with  six.  So — move." 

Not  sympathetic — perhaps  not  kind — but  pro- 
foundly wise.  There's  nothing  like  high-pressure 
action  for  the  jumpy  nerve  or  the  sinking  stomach; 
and  when  there's  something  doing  the  dead  must 
bury  their  dead.  .  .  . 

"Ten  casualties  up  in  the  wood,  sir;  but  we've  got 
four  good  trunks  for  legs." 

John,  watching  the  empty  wagon  going  back  for 


THE  BRIDGE  251 

more  stores  at  a  hand-gallop,  turned  to  his  sergeant, 
who  had  come  up  behind  him. 

"Good.  We'll  do  it  with  two  trestles."  They 
moved  away  together  to  the  bottom  of  the  ravine, 
where  two  parties  of  sappers  were  working.  The 
sweat  was  pouring  off  them  as  they  heaved  the  baulks 
into  position,  ready  for  the  N.C.O.  in  charge  of  each 
group  to  give  them  the  necessary  measurements  be- 
fore lashing.  Gradually  the  shelling  was  increasing, 
and  though  blind  and  undirected  at  present,  John's 
pipe  was  shifting  from  one  side  to  the  other  of  his 
mouth.  It  was  a  trick  of  his  when  he  was  worried, 
and  it  was  the  only  way  he  ever  showed  it.  But  a 
heavy  trestle  bridge  cannot  be  put  up  without  men, 
and  there  had  already  been  ten  casualties  in  the  wood. 

A  5.9  burst  in  the  ravine  fifty  yards  away,  and 
John  bowed  gracefully  as  a  fragment  whizzed  past 
his  head.  Then  there  came  another  and  yet  another, 
and  John's  pipe  shifted  a  little  more  rapidly. 

"They've  got  the  range,"  he  muttered;  "let's  hope 
to  God  they  don't  get  the  direction.  What's  the 
matter,  Jackson?" 

A  brawny-looking  North  countryman  was  feeling 
his  leg,  and  whispering  a  benediction. 

"A  bit  of  that  last  blinking  shell,  sir,"  he  answered. 
He  twisted  a  handkerchief  round  his  thigh,  and  con- 
tinued whispering.  Then  he  turned  savagely  on  the 
man  next  him.  "Two  frapping  turns,  you  perishing 
flat-foot.  You  ain't  fit  to  tie  up  a  pound  o'  mar- 
garine in  a  butter  queue,  you  lop-eared  son  ..." 


252  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

But  thereafter  he  became  technical,  so  let  us  leave 
him. 

It  was  just  two  hours  before  the  first  trestle  was 
ready  for  hoisting  into  position,  and  during  the  last 
part  of  the  time  things  had  become  quieter.  That 
it  would  not  last  John  knew  only  too  well;  but  he 
had  hopes  of  getting  the  bridge  fixed,  at  any  rate 
temporarily,  before  the  storm  broke  out  again. 

"All  together  now — heave."  The  men  standing 
round  the  trestle  lifted  it  a  foot  in  the  right  direction. 
"Again  so — heave."  Sweating  and  cursing  they  got 
the  bottoms  of  the  legs  in  their  proper  places,  and 
the  guys  fixed  to  the  tops  of  the  legs  for  hauling  the 
trestle  upright. 

"Pay  out  on  that  back  guy."  John's  voice  sounded 
clear  across  on  the  other  side,  and  even  as  he  spoke, 
with  a  vicious  crack  an  H.E.  shrapnel  burst  just 
above  them.  It  killed  two  men  and  wounded  four, 
and  clean  as  a  knife  it  cut  both  back  guys.  With  a 
snap  they  parted,  and  the  trestle  crashed  forwards 
on  to  the  side  near  John,  crushing  a  man's  leg  as  it 
fell. 

It  was  a  moment  calling  for  stern  restraint,  and 
it  was  unfortunate  that  the  Staff  Captain  of  the 
Brigade  should  have  selected  it  to  approach  with 
some  pack  mules.  It  was  still  more  unfortunate  that 
he  should  have  greeted  John  with  the  statement  that 
he  had  been  told  the  bridge  was  ready,  and  why  the 
devil  wasn't  it?  He  was  harassed,  that  Staff  Cap- 
tain; and  he'd  had  a  trying  time.  Moreover  his  face 


THE  BRIDGE  253 

was  red  with  heat  and  exertion.  Two  men  were 
fixing  new  back  guys  as  he  spoke,  and  for  the 
moment  John  was  free.  What  he  said  is  not  offi- 
cially recorded,  which  is  perhaps  as  well;  but  it  is 
written  in  the  annals  of  John's  Field  Company.  Let 
it  merely  be  stated  that  even  the  man  whose  leg  was 
crushed  laughed,  while  the  Staff  Captain  turned  a 
brilliant  puce  and  jibbered.  A  crump  droned  wearily 
down  near  by,  and  the  Staff  Captain  ducked;  but 
John  did  not  pause.  He  was  still  speaking  when  his 
adversary  stood  upright  again.  He  continued  speak- 
ing long  after  the  Staff  Captain  had  departed  and 
he  was  officially  under  arrest.  In  fact,  it  took  his 
Company  Commander  quite  a  long  time  to  smooth 
matters  over. 

"He  said  he  wanted  a  monkey  to  drive  piles  with," 
spluttered  the  offended  one,  "and  asked  me  what  my 
terms  were." 

"Too  bad."  The  Field  Company  Commander  con- 
cealed a  smile. 

"He  never  stopped,"  went  on  the  other,  "and  he. 
never  repeated  himself." 

"I'll  bet  he  didn't."     John's  C.O.  spoke  feelingly. 

"I  thought  the  bridge  was  made.  Damn  it  all, 
I'd  been  told  so.  And  it's  subversive  of  discipline 
to  have  one's  face  compared  to  a  blood  orange  gone 
bad — in  front  of  the  men." 

But,  I  digress.  All  that  came  after,  and  ended 
happily  in  an  impromptu  dinner,  where  John  and 
the  Staff  Captain,  having  looked  on  the  wine  that 
is  red  and  the  Benedictine  that  is  yellow,  sang  to- 


254  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

gather  on  the  table.  It  cannot  be  called  a  duet,  as 
both  were  singing  different  songs;  but  the  result  was 
excellent,  which  is  all  that  matters. 

And  so  let  us  return  to  the  bridge.  Three  hours 
had  gone  by  since  the  new  back  guys  had  been  fixed 
and  the  first  trestle  hoisted  into  position.  The  sec- 
ond was  in  its  place,  and  between  them  ran  the 
roadway.  Dotted  about  in  various  places  little 
groups  of  men  were  lashing  and  hammering,  while 
underneath,  in  the  ravine  below  them,  lay  a  dozen 
motionless  figures — sprawling  uncouthly,  with  staring, 
steadfast  eyes.  They  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  the 
last  bolt  to  be  driven  in,  which  would  justify  their 
sacrifice.  The  bridge  had  been  their  job,  and  they 
had  bee^  the  price.  .  .  . 

So  far  John  had  not  been  touched,  and  at  the 
moment  he  was  standing  with  his  sergeant,  who  with 
one  arm  broken  with  a  lump  of  shell  and  a  bloody 
bandage  round  his  head,  had  refused  to  quit  till  the 
job  was  done. 

"Have  a  nip  of  this,  Palmer,"  John  handed  the 
sergeant  his  flask.  "You'd  better  go,  man.  You're 
looking  damned  dicky." 

"I'll  see  it  through,  sir."  The  N.C.O.  raised  the 
flask  to  his  lips,  and  then,  slowly,  his  arm  dropped 
to  his  side  and  he  remained  staring  upwards. 
"There's  a  Hun,  sir,  and  he's  blinking  low." 

John  looked  up,  and  even  as  he  did  so,  there  came 
an  ominous  swishing  through  the  air.  It  was  far 
more  of  a  whistle  than  the  average  shell  makes,  and 
it.  was  quite  unmistakable. 


THE  BRIDGE  255 

"Duck,  boys!"  As  one  man  they  threw  them- 
selves on  their  faces,  and  the  next  instant  the  bomb 
exploded.  It  missed  the  bridge  and  hit  the  ground 
about  ten  yards  away.  And  ten  yards  is  unpleasantly 
close  when  you're  above  the  burst.  Some  heavy 
roadway  limber,  which  was  in  position  but  not  yet 
bolted  down,  was  hurled  into  the  ravine  below,  with 
three  men  who  were  lying  on  it.  The  whole  structure 
rocked  dizzily,  while  the  trestle  nearest  to  the  bomb 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  peppered  with  a  charge  of 
gigantic  duck  shot.  The  fumes  drifted  over  them, 
stifling  and  choking;  but  long  before  they  had  gone 
John  was  out  investigating  the  damage. 

"Curse  the  fellow!"  he  grunted  savagely.  "I 
hope  that's  his  last." 

Below,  one  of  the  men  was  painfully  dragging 
himself  clear  of  a  baulk  of  wood  which  had  fallen 
on  his  chest,  while  the  other  two,  half  stunned,  were 
gazing  dizzily  about  them. 

"Get  a  move  on,  boys,"  he  shouted.  "The  swab's 
gone  now." 

"But  he's  coming  back,  sir,"  said  a  corporal  beside 
him.  "Look  at  him." 

Uncomprehendingly,  for  a  moment  they  watched 
the  machine.  It  had  gone  on  for  a  bit,  and  then, 
banking  steeply,  had  turned  round. 

"Gawd!  wot's  'e  up  to?"  A  sapper,  with  his 
mouth  open,  stared  foolishly  at  the  Hun  airman. 
'  'E's  going  to  ram  us." 

Like  a  huge  bird  the  machine  was  diving  straight 


256  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

at  them.  They  could  see  the  pilot's  face,  silhouetted 
against  the  sky;  they  could  see  his  goggles  and  his 
leather  jacket. 

R-r-r-r-rip.  Some  men,  with  a  queer  spinning 
motion,  threw  up  their  hands  and  fell  downwards 
on  to  the  ground  below — killed  instantaneously  by 
the  aeroplane's  machine-gun.  And  then,  when  it 
seemed  a  certainty  that  the  machine  must  crash  into 
the  bridge,  when  John  McVeagh  had  bitten  the  stem 
of  his  pipe  clean  through,  and  had  instinctively  braced 
his  shoulders  to  meet  the  impact  of  the  machine, 
the  unexpected  happened.  As  suddenly  as  it  had 
come — it  was  gone.  It  shot  past  them  with  the 
roar  of  an  express  train  not  ten  feet  above  their 
heads,  and  rose  into  the  air  again.  A  thing  of  sec- 
onds that  swoop — of  fractions  of  seconds :  one  of  the 
innovations  of  modern  war.  .  .  . 

"I  am  not  certain,"  murmured  John,  looking  at 
his  pipe  and  then  at  the  machine  rapidly  disappearing 
into  the  distance,  "but  I  think  that  operation  is 
known  as  zooming.  I  am  almost  tempted  to  say 
Good-bye-ee." 

But  it  was  not  to  be  Good-bye-ee,  though  for  the 
airman's  sake  it  would  perhaps  have  been  as  well. 
There  are  stringent  orders,  it  is  true,  on  the  subject 
of  firing  with  rifles  at  aeroplanes.  The  damage  to 
the  aeroplane  is  generally  so  small  that  a  hailstorm  of 
spent  rifle  bullets  falling  in  odd  places  behind  the 
line  is  hardly  regarded  as  good  value.  But  John  was 
no  stickler  for  etiquette,  and  when  therefore  he  saw 


THE  BRIDGE  257 

that  airman  turning  once  again,  he  did  not  stop  to 
think  twice. 

"Rifles,"  he  roared,  "and  get  down  in  the  ditch. 
When  he  starts  going  upwards  fire  at  his  head." 

They  jumped,  they  fell,  they  swarmed  into  the 
ditch,  and  they  stood  with  their  backs  to  the  side 
from  which  the  Hun  was  coming.  They  heard  him 
coming  louder  and  louder;  then  with  a  swish  and  a 
roar  he  was  down  on  the  bridge  again — machine  gun 
going  full  blast.  He  rose,  and  for  a  moment,  clearly 
outlined,  they  saw  his  head,  and  forty  odd  rifles 
cracked.  Thirty-seven  bullets  found  their  resting- 
place  in  peaceful  fields  behind.  One  apparently 
struck  a  hairy  horse  of  doubtful  temper,  who  had 
recently  developed  mange,  and  thereby  saved  the  vet. 
much  trouble.  One  apparently  caused  an  abrasion  of 
the  finger  to  an  N.C.O.  in  the  Army  Pay  Depart- 
ment, which  was  duly  reported  as  a  wound,  and 
caused  a  sensation.  But  one  most  certainly  passed 
through  the  Hun  pilot's  head. 

They  saw  him  fall  forward :  they  saw  the  machine 
sway  drunkenly.  And  then — suddenly — it  crashed, 
and  burst  into  flames;  while  twisting  and  turning  a 
little  black  figure  kept  pace  with  it  as  it  fell  to  the 
ground. 

They  found  the  pilot  later  in  the  old  No  Man's 
Land,  and  his  eyes  were  staring  too,  just  like  the 
eyes  of  the  men  he'd  killed. 

"One  can't  help  wondering,  sir,"  said  the  sergeant 
to  John  as  they  looked  at  him,  "what  the  devil  they 
say  to  one  another  when  they  first  meet.  ..." 


258  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

And  that  was  the  last  adventure  at  the  bridge. 
That  evening,  over  the  track  that  had  been  prepared, 
there  came  limbered  wagons  and  mules,  infantry  and 
machine  gunners.  They  came  to  the  bridge,  and 
they  passed  over  it,  and  they  vanished  into  the  gloom 
beyond.  To  them  it  was  just  a  bridge;  but  to  John 
McVeagh — it  was  just  his  bridge.  In  time  to  come 
lorries  and  guys  would  use  it;  later,  when  the  line 
pushed  on,  it  would  fall  out  of  use  and  the  timbers 
would  rot  away. 

Sightseers  will  look  at  it  perhaps  when  the  war  is 
over — just  a  few  crumbling  bits  of  decaying  wood. 

A  bridge — an  old  bridge — used  in  an  advance. 
That's  all.  But  it  was  one  of  the  pieces  in  the 
jig-saw. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   ONLY    WAY 

NOSEY,  I  shall  very  probably  talk  to  you  to- 
night. I  have  a  feeling  that  I  am  in  my 
most  brilliant  form."  The  speaker — by  name  Hugh 
Lethbridge — sat  down  on  his  blanket  and  contem- 
plated the  other  occupant  of  the  perforated  sieve 
which  formed  their  abode  for  the  night.  It  could 
hardly  be  called  a  room,  as  a  room  is  generally  sus- 
pected of  having  four  walls  and  a  ceiling:  this,  on 
the  contrary,  boasted  of  three  has-beens  and  a  hole. 

"Hinspired  by  the  Ritz,  I  don't  think,"  returned 
the  other  morosely.  "Look  'ere,  mate,  if  you  moves 
two  foot  to  the  right,  you'll  cover  that  there  blink- 
ing crack  with  yer  back,  and  keep  the  breeze  out." 

"But  how  nice,  Nosey,  for  my  back,"  Lethbridge 
laughed.  "By  the  way,  any  mail  in?" 

"Yus;  three  for  you.  Wot's  that  thing  there  on 
the  back  of  the  henvelope?"  He  passed  over  the 
letters  to  his  companion  as  he  spoke,  and  Lethbridge 
glanced  at  them  casually. 

"That!"  He  laughed  again.  "That,  my  worthy 
warrior,  is  a  coronet.  It  means  that  the  writer  is 
a  tit,  nob,  or  similar  what-not." 

259 


260  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

"Wot — one  of  the  haristocracy?  Blime,  mate, 
'ave  you  been  working  the  lonely  soldier  stunt  with 
one  of  the  nibs?" 

Nosey  gazed  at  him  in  undisguised  admiration. 

"Put  it  that  way  if  you  like,  Nosey."  Lethbridge 
was  opening  his  mail.  "It  doesn't  much  matter 
these  days  how  you  put  it.  To  paraphrase  a  certain 
bard,  my  friend — 'Sound  walls  are  more  than  coro- 
nets, and  holeless  socks  than  Norman  blood/  ' 

For  a  while  there  was  silence,  only  broken  by 
Nosey  gently  sucking  his  teeth  as  he  pondered  this 
last  great  thought. 

"Yes" — Lethbridge  folded  up  his  letters  and  put 
them  in  his  pocket — "the  war  has  changed  a  lot 
of  things.  Frankly,  Nosey,  if  I  had  been  asked  in 
July  1914  whether  I  thought  it  likely  that  I  should 
to-day  be  sitting  in  a  mansion  of  this  sort  discussing 
philosophy  with  you,  I  should  have  been  inclined  to 
say  no." 

"I  dunna  abaht  yer  philosophy,"  answered  the 
other;  "my  philosophy  is  when  the  'ell  I'm  a-going 
to  get  back  to  me  barrer  in  White  chapel.  'Fish! 
fine  fried  fish — and  chips — all  'ot !'  "  His  voice  rose 
as  he  chanted  his  war-cry,  and  he  spat  reflectively. 

"Do  you  want  to  get  back  to  your  barrow  in  White- 
chapel?"  Lethbridge  looked  at  his  companion  curi- 
ously. 

"Do  I  want  to?"  Nosey's  tone  was  frankly 
amazed.  "Lumme,  mate,  you  can  search  me.  Do 
I  want  to?"  Once  again  he  spat  accurately  and 
with  great  vehemence.  Then  suddenly — "But  not 


THE  ONLY  WAY  261 

till  we've  beat  these;  not  till  we've  beat  the 

perishers  off  the  faice  of  the  herth."  His  language 
was  of  Whitechapel  Whitechapelly ;  his  sentiments 
might  have  inspired  bishops  .  .  .  but  haven't. 

Lethbridge  laughed  and  lit  a  cigarette.  ' 'Nosey,  he 
said  after  a  moment's  silence,  "you  interest  me. 
Do  you  like  this  game  out  here?" 

"Do  I  like  it?"  Nosey  scratched  his  head.  "  'Ere, 
chuck  us  one  of  them  fags;  they  smells  good.  I 
dunno  as  'ow  I  likes  it  much,  wot  with  messing 
about  with  ration  parties  and  R.E.  fatigues;  but  I 
wouldn't  be  out  of  it.  Strite,  I  wouldn't.  It  sort 
o'  gets  'old  of  one,  don't  it?" 

"But  do  you  know  what  you're  out  here  for?" 
persisted  the  other. 

"Yus,  mate.  Braive  little  Belgium — Hi  don't 
think."  Nosey  grinned  broadly.  "Shall  I  tell  you 

what  we're  out  'ere  for — to  do  down  the Boche ; 

that's  what  we're  out  'ere  for.  'E  hasked  for  it, 
and  now  he's  ruddy  well  got  it — the  perisher." 

"And  what  made  you  come  in  to  start  with, 
Nosey?" 

"Gaw  lumme — I  dunno."  Again  he  thoughtfully 
scratched  his  head.  "I  didn't  think  abaht  it.  I 
just  come.  The  old  country  was  shouting  for  men, 
and  so  I  left  the  old  gal  to  run  the  barrer  and  joined 
up.  I  dunno  why." 

"You  didn't  think  about  it,  and  you  just  came. 
I  did  think  about  it,  and — here  we  both  are."  Leth- 
bridge blew  out  a  cloud  of  smoke.  "Seems  all  right, 
don't  it,  Nosey?" 


262  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

"And  wot  did  you  think  about  it?"  His  com- 
panion was  mildly  interested. 

"Do  you  know  what  an  idealist  is,  Nosey  ?"  asked 
Lethbridge. 

"Yus — not  'alf.  A  man  wot  starts  selling  ginger- 
beer  to  the  working  man  without  no  gin  in  it." 

"Your  definition  might  well  be  worse."  Hugh 
Lethbridge  missed  a  stout  rodent  by  a  bare  inch. 
"But  though  I  have  never  in  my  wildest  moments  at- 
tempted to  sell  ginger-beer  to  the  working  man,  with 
or  without  gin,  I  was  nevertheless  an  idealist.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  I  am  now." 

"It  don't  pay,  mate;  it  don't  pay.  Cash  down  is 
my  terms  at  the  barrer,  and  a  man  can  fill  his  belly. 
But  no  tick." 

"You  elaborate  your  definition,  Nosey,  I  see.  Does 
Mrs.  Nosey  agree  with  the  no-tick  principle?" 

"You  bet  yer  sweet  life.  There  hain't  no  flies  on 
Marier." 

Lethbridge  accepted  this  zoological  assertion 
calmly;  he  seemed  to  be  following  a  train  of  thought 
of  his  own. 

"An  idealist,  Nosey,  and  a  cynical  one  at  that. 
The  beauty  of  things  as  they  might  be" — Lethbridge 
was  speaking  dreamily — "the  hideous  drabness  of 
things  as  they  were.  One  sees  both;  one  saw  both 
before  the  war;  and  the  futility  of  combining  the 
two,  the.  idiocy  of  kicking  against  the  pricks,  made 
one  laugh  and  weep.  Then — the  war:  the  final 
magnificent  climax  of  every  influence  that  makes  for 
unhappiness  in  life." 


THE  ONLY  WAY  263 

"Yus,  ^don't  expect  we  shall  get  much  happiness 
•out  of  tl^»ttle  bundle  of  trouble,"  answered  Nosey. 
"Still,  mawfcyou  never  knows:  it  might  clear  the 
hair  like;  and  it  'as  made  me  and  the  likes  of  me 
hunderstand  you  and  the  likes  of  you  as  we  never 
did  before." 

"Perhaps  so;  but  will  that  understanding  last — • 
will  it  bear  the  test  of  time?  We're  all  striving,  my 
friend,  for  material  success,  the  little  'brief  author- 
ity' ;  and  when  we  get  it  it's  Dead  Sea  fruit." 

"Yus,  and  when  yer  ruddy  well  don't  get  it,  hit's 
worse  than  Dead  Sea  fruit.  It's  a  rotten  marrer, 
then,  mate;  you  can  taike  it  from  me." 

"Doesn't  that  show  we're  on  the  wrong  lines? 
Either  way  it's  a  frost;  and  the  fool  who  said, 
'God's  in  His  heaven;  all's  well  with  the  world/ 
spoke  according  to  his  folly." 

"Yus,  mate,  it  do  seem  as  if  Gawd  weren't  taking 
much  notice  just  at  present."  Nosey 's  tone  was 
thoughtful.  "And  yet,  I  dunno;  I  can't  complain. 
Wot  wiv  the  old  gal's  separation  hallowance,  and 
one  thing  and  another,  we  ain't  doing  too  bad." 

Lethbridge  smiled.  "This  is  only  the  climax, 
my  friend :  the  logical  climax  to  which  we  have  been 
drifting  for  years.  Mankind  has  been  riding  for  a 
fall;  it's  got  it.  I'll  tell  you  a  little  story  of  a  man 
who  sat  on  the  top  of  a  cliff,  from  which  he  contem- 
plated the  struggles  of  humanity  in  the  sea  below. 

"Detached  from  them  he  watched  with  keen  inter- 
est the  goals  towards  which  they  strove;  and  as  is 
ever  the  way  with  those  who  watch  from  a  distance 


264  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

he  failed  to  see  the  practical  difficulties  which  beset 
their  paths.  The  man  swimming  out  tcn^ea,  in  his 
effort  to  reach  a  distant  boat,  has  but  a  limited  hori- 
zon. Each  wave  he  meets  is  one  more  thing  to  be 
got  over;  and  from  its  crest  he  may  or  may  not  see 
his  goal."  At  times  he  is  in  the  bottom  of  a  mighty 
trough — at  times  completely  submerged;  but  he  goes 
on.  .  .  .  Perhaps  he  reaches  it;  perhaps  he  drowns; 
but  he  has  tried — and  the  measure  of  his  success  is 
the  measure  of  his  strength.  .  .  . 

"If  only  the  being  on  the  top  of  the  cliff  had 
been  able  to  direct  him,  that  time  he  got  in  the 
choppy  water  and  went  far  out  of  his  course  .  .  . 
But  to  the  detached  one  there  was  only  a  head  bob- 
bing aimlessly  in  the  sea.  .  .  . 

"If  only  the  man  with  the  big  horizon — the  man 
on  the  cliff — had  worked  in  conjunction  with  the 
struggling  swimmer  the  boat  might  have  been  reached. 
But  between  them  was  an  unbridged  gulf :  the  gulf 
which  has  always  separated  the  doer  from  the  thinker, 
the  practical  man  from  the  theorist.  And  yet  they 
could  help  each  other  so  much.  .  .  . 

"There  you  have  it :  the  idealist,  philosopher,  dream- 
er on  the  top;  the  realist,  man  of  action,  doer  in  the 
sea.  And  the  only  connecting  link  was  the  Church, 
which  the  man  on  the  cliff  didn't  believe  in,  and  the 
man  in  the  sea  hadn't  time  for.  What's  the  cure, 
Nosey?" 

"Look  'ere,  mate;  you're  the  man  on  the  cliff,  I'm 
the  bloke  in  the  sea."  Nosey  emphasised  his  point 
with  two  fingers  on  a  horny  palm.  "Wot  I  says  to 


THE  ONLY  WAY  265 

you  is  this.  If  you  wants  to  'elp  us,  there's  one  thing 
you've  got  to  be  bloody  sure  about:  that's  our  stand- 
ard. See — our  limit.  What  you  blokes  do  is  this, 
and  the  women  is  the  worst :  you  come  down  and  you 
mess  us  about.  Tells  us  wot  we  ought  to  like,  an'  wot 
we  hought  not ;  wot  we  ought  to  do,  and  wot  we  hought 
not,  when  the  two  standards  is  totally  different — yours 
and  hours.  Me  and  my  ole  gal  now,  we've  lived  to- 
gether for  ten  years,  but  I  hain't  married  to  'er.  We 
don't  want  no  perishing  devil  dodger  gabbling  stuff 
hover  us.  An*  we're  'appy  too,  mate — don't  you  make 
no  ruddy  error:  'appier'n  a  lot  of  them  that  is  mar- 
ried proper.  But,  Lor'  luv  yer,  a  laidy  o'  sorts  come 
round  the  other  day  and  tried  to  get  the  ole  gal  to 
promise  to  marry  me  when  I  comes  'ome.  'Make  an 
'onest  woman  of  her/  she  says;  and  when  Liza  tells 
'er  to  go  to  'ell  she  gets  quite  'uffy.  I  puts  it  to  you, 
mate,  hain't  it  better  to  live  with  a  woman  you  loves, 
than  marry  a  woman  yer  don't?  That's  the  standard 
we  knows ;  only  you  blokes  on  the  cliff  don't  see  it." 

"Not  all  of  us,  Nosey;  not  all  of  us.  But  some 
do."  Lethbridge  sat  forward  with  his  arms  round 
his  knees.  "What  you've  said  is  only  one  point  in  the 
big  scheme,  though  it's  a  large  point.  All  sex  ques- 
tions fill  a  disproportionate  amount  of  the  horizon 
in  life,  and  we  people  on  the  cliff  would  be  very 
blind  if  we  did  not  know  it.  It  was  a  sex  question 
that  sent  me  back  to  the  top,  when  I  came' down  into 
the  sea,  and  really  swam  for  the  first  time,  Nosey." 

"Yus,  the  women  do  the  'ell  of  a  lot  of  mischief; 
but  they've  the  goods."  Nosey  thoughtfully  removed 


266  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

a  cigarette  from  Hugh's  case.  "Prefer  Ogden's  me- 
self,  but  these  hain't  bad."  He  lit  it  and  blew  out  a 
cloud  of  smoke.  "Get  messed  up  wiv  some  one's  girl  ?" 
he  asked  genially. 

"No;  not  exactly  that."  Lethbridge  smiled.  "Jess 
and  I — she's  my  cocker  spaniel,  Nosey — came  down 
from  our  cliff  once  to  contest  the  constituency  of  Pud- 
dleton." 

"Blimey !  a  Hem-P."  Nosey  gazed  at  him  in  won- 
der. "One  of  them  blokes  that  makes  speeches  and 
reads  'em  hin  the  papers  the  next  day." 

"You've  got  it.  We  decided  to  become  M.P/s,  Jess 
and  I.  It  took  us  some  time  to  make  up  our  minds; 
but  finally  one  afternoon  we  went  into  the  study  to 
make  a  decision.  To  Jess  the  only  thing  that  mat- 
tered was  that  the  day  was  not  to  be  spent  indoors. 

"Barking  excitedly  she  rushed  to  the  open  windows 
which  led  into  the  garden,  and  through  which  the 
moors,  glinting  purple  and  gold  in  the  sunlight, 
stretched  away  to  the  hills  in  the  horizon.  Another 
slobber — another  rush;  and  then,  having  told  me  the 
great  news,  she  sat  down  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
and  watched  me  expectantly.  She  had  done  her  part  of 
the  business — it  only  remained  for  me  to  do  mine ;  and 
my  failure  to  immediately  comply  with  the  course  of 
action  which  was  so  obviously  the  correct  one  brought 
a  pensive  look  to  the  big  brown  eyes.  To  Jess,  it  was 
incomprehensible  that  her  adored  master  should  remain 
standing  by  the  big  roll-top  desk  in  the  window,  star- 
ing out  into  the  world  beyond,  into  freedom  and 
rabbits  and  smells  both  good  and  bad,  and  not  imme- 


THE  ONLY  WAY  267 

diately  go  forth  and  explore  these  wonders  with  her. 
But  then,  it  has  puzzled  wiser  heads  than  a  cocker 
spaniel's,  why  what  is  so  obvious  to  us  is  not  quite  so 
obvious  to  the  other  man.  .  .  ." 

"Yer  right,  mate."  Nosey  sighed  profoundly.  "That 
there  blinking  ration  fatigue,  I  got  caught  for  last 
night.  .  .  .  And  I  told  the  sergeant  it  weren't  my 
turn." 

Lethbridge  laughed.  "I  told  her  that,  as  best  I 
could,"  he  said.  "I  told  her  that  we  could  set- 
tle it  best  with  the  smell  of  the  wild  coming  in  through 
the  window,  and  the  heat  haze  shimmering  away  there 
on  the  gorse:  this  great  question  of  coming  off  the 
cliff.  Have  you  ever  noticed,  Nosey,  that  heather  is 
lovely  in  theory  but  damned  unpleasant  in  practice?" 

"Can't  say  I  'ave,  mate,"  Nosey  ruminated.  "I 
don't  'old  with  'eather.  Fish  is  my  line." 

"It's  unpleasant  in  practice,  Nosey,  because  you 
flush  far  too  many  flies  and  other  abominations  when 
you  come  in  contact  with  it.  Much  insect  life  will 
worry  you  before  you  get  to  the  birds;  which,  inci- 
dentally, is  why  it's  so  like  politics."  It  was  a  dread- 
ful eye-opener,  Nosey,  that  descent  to  materialism.  My 
principal  supporter  was  the  Bishop  of  Slushton;  and 
for  days  Mrs.  Bishop  inflicted  upon  my  defenceless 
head  her  husband's  schemes  for  the  amelioration  of 
the  conditions  of  the  Hottentots. 

"A  pontifical  old  ass,  that  husband  of  hers,  Nosey, 
and  he  knew  it.  Moreover  he  knew  I  knew  it.  Utterly 
out  of  touch  with  life  as  it  is;  concerned  only  with 
impossible  schemes  for  the  undesired  alteration  of 


268  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

life  as  it  isn't.  And  of  such  is  the  Church  largely 
composed. 

"Jess  didn't  realise  at  the  time  what  a  nasty  thing 
it  is  to  contest  a  constituency ;  in  fact,  she  rather  liked 
Puddleton  if  I  remember  aright.  She  found  a  variety 
of  unpleasant  things  there,  which  she  kindly  gave  me; 
but  they  were  nothing  to  what  I  found,  Nosey.  The 
rottenness  of  the  constituents  of  Puddleton  was  past 
belief;  and  the  knavery  of  my  agent  was  the  result 
of  the  system ;  and  I  remember  his  fury  when  I  threat- 
ened to  throw  my  hand  in  if  he  so  much  as  hinted 
at  some  unfortunate  domestic  trouble  of  my  hated 
rival !  I  told  you  it  was  sex,  Nosey.  This  abominable 
ruffian,  so  my  agent  affirmed,  was  positively  living 
with  a  woman  who  was  not  his  wife :  his  only  excuse 
being  that  his  wife  was  mentally  afflicted,  so  that  he 
was  unable  to  live  with  her.  Think  of  it,  Nosey — 
the  villainy  of  it!  And  when  I  found  it  had  got  about, 
in  spite  of  what  I  told  that  agent,  and  announced  on 
the  platform  at  the  meeting  presided  over  by  Sir  Ebe- 
nezer  Johnson — sometime  Marmalade  King — and  now 
pillar  of  State  and  country  gentleman,  that  my  rival's 
action  was  perfectly  justified,  which  was  more  than 
could  be  said  for  the  majority  of  those  present,  as 
they  had  no  similar  excuse — yes,  when  I  said  that, 
my  damned  agent  was  quite  annoyed.  A  nasty  fellow 
that  man,  who  had  spent  his  life  nosing  in  unsavoury 
details  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  him.  And  such 
is  Party  Politics.  .  .  ." 

Lethbridge  thoughtfully  filled  his  pipe  and  reached 
for  the  matches. 


THE  ONLY  WAY  269 

"Yes,  we  came  down  off  the  cliff  that  time  and 
got  into  the  sea,  Jess  and  I.  Then  having  lost  the 
seat  by  an  overwhelming  majority  we  went  back  again, 
and  watched  the  struggles  of  the  successful  candidate. 
His  maiden  speech — an  illuminating  masterpiece  on 
the  subject  of  the  treatment  of  Polynesian  aboriginals 
— sounded,  I  believe,  worse  than  it  read;  and  he  sank 
into  profound  obscurity.  Strange  in  a  way  too,  be- 
cause he  knew  nothing  about  Polynesian  aboriginals. 
But  there  you  are,  Nosey;  you  never  can  tell — you 
never  can  tell.  .  .  ." 

"Which  is  just  what  I  says,  mate :  yer  standard  was 
different.  Hif  you  wants  to  succeed,  you  must  'ave 
the  same  standard  as  them  around  you.  It  hain't  no 
good  trying  to  go  against  people;  you  must  run  wiv 
them." 

"And  the  point  is,  whether  success  is  worth  it  at 
the  price." 

"You're  going  a'head  too  far,  mate.  Us  blokes  'ave 
got  to  succeed ;  us  blokes  'ave  got  to  work  and  strug- 
gle to  live.  We  ain't  come  to  no  ruddy  millennium 
yet,  where  hever  you  gets  a  'arp  and  a  skinful  of  beer 
'anging  on  a  tree.  I  hain't  got  no  word  to  say  against 
yer  theories,  hexcept  that  they  hain't  practical.  For 
all  the  dreaming  and  'ot  air  that  was  coughed  hup 
by  them  as  should  know  about  war  being  himpossible, 
'ere  we  are,  mate,  up  to  our  pluvvy  necks  in  the  mud, 
and  popping  the  parapet  day  after  to-morrer.  'Ow 
could  you  'ave  prevented  this  war  with  your  theories? 
It  don't  matter  a  damn  wot  hactually  started  it,  but 


270  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

the  'Un  is  out  to  prove  'e's  the  Lord  Tgh  Hemperor  of 
the  World,  and  we're  hout  to  prove  'e  ain't/' 

"That  the  future  of  the  world  does  not  belong  to 
the  blonde  beast,"  Lethbridge  smiled  cynically.  "We 
saw  the  maelstrom  from  the  cliff,  Nosey,  and  from 
the  cliff  it  seemed  ridiculous  that  the  swimmers  should 
not  be  able  to  miss  it.  But  then,  from  the  cliff  it  was 
impossible  to  tell  the  strength  of  the  cross  currents. 
From  the  cliff  it  seemed  that  two  of  the  competitors 
deliberately,  and  with  malice  aforethought,  swam  into 
that  maelstrom,  and  that  the  others  were  sucked  there 
against  their  will.  That's  what  it  looked  like  from  the 
cliff;  and  to  the  unbiassed  onlooker  the  cream  of  the 
jest  is  that  the  whole  blessed  lot  are  in  there  now, 
and  every  one  of  them  is  claiming  God  as  his  especial 
property,  in  this  war  of  right,  against  might.'* 

"Yus;  the  Halmighty  must  be  'aving  a  busy  time 
these  days."  Nosey  spat  reflectively. 

"Lord,  what  a  throw  back  it  is,  Nosey!"  burst  out 
Hugh  suddenly,  "this  killing  business.  Can  any  so- 
lution obtained  at  such  a  cost  be  worth  while?" 

"In  course  it  can,  mate."  Nosey's  tone  was  immeas- 
urably scornful.  "I  tells  you  this  'ere  war  will  make 
the  Hempire  wot  it  never  was  before — a  real  thing  to 
hus  blokes  at  'ome.  Hits  taught  hus  the  meaning  of 
the  word,  and  made  us  realise  wot  we  never  heven 
thought  of  before.  Hits  enlarged  our  minds,  broken 
down  class  'atred  amongst  them  has  'as  fought,  and 
made  hus  all  think  about  the  possibilities  of  hemigra- 
tion." 

"At  the  cost  of  a  few  million  lives." 


THE  ONLY  WAY  271 

"Yer  can't  'ave  big  results  without  big  costs.  Hand 
wot  I  says  is,  that  seeing  as  we  didn't  ask  for  it,  the 
costs  hain't  our  fault,  hand  the  results  is  our  re- 
ward." 

"And  what  good  has  the  Empire  ever  done  you, 
Nosey,"  said  Lethbridge  quietly. 

"None.  I  hadmits  it;  for  I  never  'eard  nothing 
about  it.  They  was  ashamed  of  it,  before  the  war 
they  was,  at  'ome :  hashamed  of  it,  or  so  hit  seemed. 
Now  we  knows ;  and  all  them  great  lands — Haustralia, 
Canada,  New  Zealand — mean  something  to  us.  There's 
jobs  there,  mate,  for  me  and  the  likes  o'  me;  and  if 
I  'adn't  got  me  barrer  I'd  'ook  it  to  one  of  them  with 
the  old  gal." 

For  a  while  there  was  silence,  and  Lethbridge 
listened  to  the  dull  crash  of  a  shell  in  the  town  near 
by. 

"You're  optimistic,  Nosey:  more  optimistic  than  I 
am,"  he  said  at  length.  "We're  all  in  the  soup,  and 
there  we'll  remain  till  we've  struggled  out.  What  will 
be  the  result  then,  when  the  hands  across  the  table 
and  the  Huns  have  gone  down  ?  God  knows.  Whether 
it  will  have  been  worth  it  or  not,  God  knows.  Whether 
we  shall  get  any  good  from  the  evil,  God  knows.  But 
we're  in  it  now;  and  that  is  all  that  matters  now. 
Once  you're  committed  to  a  course  of  action,  be  you 
man  or  nation,  even  to  the  idealist  there  is  only  one 
way  of  tackling  it,  and  that's  bald-headed.  There's 
no  good  waiting  and  wondering,  thinking  and  theoris- 
ing. That  may  come  later.  But  just  now,  if  we're 


272  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

to  get  the  swimmer  out  of  the  whirlpool,  we've  got 
to  get  into  the  sea  and  swim  like  hell." 

"  'Ere,  'ere,  mate.  Cut  the  cackle  and  get  to  the 
Bosses.  And  there's  honly  one  way  of  getting  to  the 
'osses;  and  we  both  knows  it."  Nosey  grinned  gently. 
"Yus ;  we  both  knows  it.  But  wot  I  do  want  to  know 
is  this:  When  we  'ave  beaten  the  'Un — shall  I  be 
allowed  to  pass  the  time  of  day  with  young  John  Bar- 
ton— 'im  that  was  working  the  next  pitch  to  me  in 
Whitechapel?  That  young  hangel,  mate,  pinched  'alf 
me  takings  one  night,  which  was  hall  in  the  matter 
of  business,  and  being  my  fault,  I  says  no  more.  What 
I  do  say  is  that  'e  'as  no  call  to  become  a  conscientious 
hobjector."  Nosey  spat  disgustedly.  "Conscience! 
that  there  perisher  ain't  got  enough  conscience  to  make 
.a  chicken  flea  blush.  I'll  make  the  swine  hobject 
when  I  get's  at  'im,  if  they  puts  me  in  quod  for  it. 
Lumme,  'ere's  the  rum.  "He  drained  his  tot,  and 
smacked  his  lips.  "Yer  'ealth,  matey.  Wot  I  says 
is  this:  let's  get  on  with  the  ruddy  war.  We're  the 
blighters  as  is  doing  it,  and  when  hits  hover'll  be 
time  enough  to  loose  the  gas.  Let's  get  it  finished,  an' 
get  'ome.  We  didn't  start  it;  but  we're  a-going  to 
finish  it." 

"My  sentiments  to  a  T,  Nosey."  Lethbridge  raised 
liis  rum  to  his  lips.  "I  looks  towards  you.  The 
cliff  and  the  sea  have  joined  in  earnest." 

"Winkles!  Winkles!  and  the  ruddy  pin  for  you,  me 
beauty."  Nosey  thoughtfully  impaled  a  stout  Hun  on 
his  bayonet  and  passed  on.  "Come  hon,  mate;  look 


THE  ONLY  WAY  273 

aht — love  yer,  that  was  pretty  shooting.  Another 
blinking  second,  and  the  perisher  would  'ave  'ad  you." 

Lethbridge  cautiously  rounded  a  traverse,  and  in- 
stantly stabbed  viciously. 

"Hanother  of  'em.  Gawd!  ain't  we  the  fairy  queens 
of  the  show."  Nosey  dropped  two  bombs  down  a 
dugout.  "Noises  hoff,"  he  remarked  genially;  "busi- 
ness hin  the  wings." 

"Well,  that  bit's  mopped  up,  Nosey,"  said  Hugh, 
wiping  his  forehead.  "What  shall  we  do  now  ?" 

"Get  on  with  it,  mate;  find  some  more,  and  get 
hon  with  the  ruddy  war.  This  is  the  only  way  to  win 
it,  and  Hi  wants  to  get  back  to  me  barren  'Fish! — 
fine  fried  fish— and  chips.  All  'ot!'  'Ullo!  Percival, 
Joo  are  you  a-looking  for?"  A  diminutive  Hun  ma- 
terialised from  nowhere  with  his  hands  up.  "Ain't 
he  a  picture.  That  way,  little  man,  and  keep  yer 
ruddy  'ands  above  yer  'ed,  or  me  gun  might  go  hoff." 

"The  only  way  to  win  it,  Nosey,"  Lethbridge 
laughed  and  looked  at  his  dripping  bayonet.  "You're 
right,  my  friend,  you're  right;  but  I  can't  help  think- 
ing of  the  time  when  a  certain  idealist  sat  on  the 
cliffs  and  wondered  how  he  could  best  help.  Mark 
over.  Crump." 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH 


IN  the  year  of  grace  1914,  in  the  month  of  July,  Mr. 
John  Smith,  known  to  his  intimates  by  the  more 
homely  title  of  Bunny,  occupied  the  proud  position  of 
clerk  at  the  Murchester  branch  of  the  London  and 
South-Western  Bank.  There  were  many  others  who 
shared  his  onerous  labours,  and  who  regarded  life 
from  a  similar  point  of  view,  one  which  may  be  briefly 
summed  up  as  free  from  all  cares  and  responsibilities 
save  that  of  avoiding  the  tired  but  searching  eye  of 
Mr.  Johnson,  the  chief  cashier,  when  they  were  en- 
gaged in  a  surreptitious  game  of  halfpenny  nap. 

At  five  o'clock  or  thereabouts  the  ledgers  would 
be  shut  with  a  bang,  and  a  crowd  of  Bunny  Smiths 
would  emerge  with  a  sigh  of  relief  into  the  sleepy 
High  Street,  across  which  the  shadow  of  the  great 
cathedral  would  already  be  creeping.  Until  nine  the 
next  morning  they  were  free  to  do  what  they  liked, 
and  were  there  not  two  picture  palaces  and  an  excel- 
lent bar  at  the  County  Hotel?  A  game  of  tennis  be- 
fore dinner  was  always  a  possibility,  a  knock  at  the 
nets  if  of  cricketing  bent,  or  a  ramble  to  the  polo 

274 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH    275 

ground  to  watch  a  chukker  or  two  if  the  cavalry  regi- 
ment quartered  in  Murchester  happened  to  be  playing. 
In  fact,  there  were  a  variety  of  things  which  filled  in 
time  after  work  was  done,  and  Bunny  Smith  was 
quite  contented  with  his  lot. 

Occasionally  vague  thoughts  would  float  through 
his  mind  that  the  plums  of  life  were  a  little  unequally 
divided,  but  these  were  cobwebs  of  fancy  disappear- 
ing almost  as  soon  as  they  had  brushed  across  his 
imagination.  There  was  a  cavalry  subaltern,  for  in- 
stance, who  used  to  come  down  to  the  bank  sometimes 
on  Friday  to  draw  pay  for  the  men.  He  was  a  long, 
thin  sort  of  person  with  an  eyeglass  and  a  powerful 
two-seated  car,  which  would  draw  up  to  the  pavement 
in  sight  of  Bunny,  who  sat  next  to  the  window.  The 
officer's  name  was  Draycott — Lord  Charles  Draycott — 
and  he  was  popularly  reputed  to  have  fifty  thousand 
a  year.  And  at  times  it  did  strike  Bunny  that  it  was 
hard  luck  that  the  long,  thin  person  should  be  a  Lord 
with  fifty  thousand  a  year,  while  he  was  just  Bunny 
with  fifty. 

But  it  never  got  any  further  than  that;  it  never 
really  made  the  boy  discontented.  He  envied  him 
vaguely,  but  it  never  came  to  any  real  feeling  of  per- 
sonal injustice.  Though  speaking  quite  familiarly  of 
him  to  a  friend  of  his,  an  articled  clerk  at  the  local 
solicitor's,  though  mentioning  casually  that  Draycott 
had  been  in  at  the  bank  again  that  morning,  the  officer 
seemed  so  completely  a  bird  of  passage  from  another 
world  that  comparison  was  ridiculous. 

Then,  again,  there  was  the  feeling  about  the  Army 


276  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

in  Murchester,  and  Bunny,  who  lived  at  home  with 
his  father,  had  been  brought  up  to  it.  Confronted 
point-blank,  he  would  have  indignantly  denied  it;  he 
would  have  considered  himself  sufficiently  a  man  of 
the  world  to  have  discarded  such  fallacies  as  this  ab- 
surd— perhaps  prejudice  is  too  strong  a  word — this 
absurd  idea  about  soldiers.  But  it  must  be  admitted 
that  the  excitement  attendant  upon  the  entertainments, 
which  formed  such  a  large  feature  in  the  lives  of  the 
^ecclesiastical  clique,  proved  so  nerve-shattering  to  the 
gallant  horse  soldiers  that  they  found  it  imperative  to 
fall  back  on  the  quiet  pastimes  of  hunting  and  polo. 
And  since  these  latter  pursuits  left  the  clerics  stone 
cold,  constant  meetings  between  the  officers  and  the 
leaders  of  Murchester  society  were  not  the  order  of 
the  day.  It  was  a  pity;  so  much  can  be  done  by  get- 
ting to  know  people — so  many  misconceptions  can  be 
swept  away. 

But,  pity  or  not,  it  was  so;  and  as  Murchester  ex- 
isted only  by  reason  of  its  cathedral,  and,  moreover, 
knew  it,  it  was  only  natural  that  its  inhabitants  should 
follow  the  cathedral  set,  and  tend  to  regard  the  sol- 
diers as  unsociable  men  of  a  somewhat  idle  type.  And, 
in  parenthesis,  in  the  year  of  grace  1914  this  idea  was 
not  confined  to  Murchester.  .  .  . 

But  I  am  digressing  from  Bunny.  Had  he  been 
asked  if  he  was  happy  during  that  period  of  his  life 
when  he  dabbled  in  other  people's  pass-books,  he 
would  have  answered  with  a  doubtful  "Yes."  The 
doubt  would  have  been  caused  by  the  fact  that  he  had 
never  really  thought  about  the  matter  at  all,  and  hav- 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH    277 

ing  concluded  that  he  was  not  actively  unhappy  the 
affirmative  would  have  been  the  answer.  Had  the 
questioner  gone  a  little  further  into  the  matter;  had 
he  suggested  that  to  a  healthy  youngster  the  life  pros- 
pects of  a  bank  clerk  were  not  such  as  to  make  him 
light-headed  with  excitement;  had  he  suggested  that 
anything,  even  the  old  hackneyed  going  away  to  sea 
notion  or  becoming  a  mechanic  in  an  aerodrome  would 
be  preferable  to  existing  conditions,  he  would  imme- 
diately have  been  brought  to  a  full  stop  by  the  dead 
wall  of  conventionality.  Custom,  convention,  that 
clogging  soul-fettering  thing  which  had  the  country 
wrapped  in  its  toils,  would  have  rebounded  on  that 
questioner,  would  have  suffocated  him,  would  have 
defeated  him. 

Think  of  the  households  that  formed  by  far  the 
larger  proportion — save  for  the  labouring  class  proper 
— of  the  towns  of  our  country :  think  of  the  homes  of 
the  Bunny  Smiths.  In  and  around  London  they 
swarmed,  that  great  body  of  steady,  quiet,  plodding 
nonentities;  in  every  town  in  the  country  they  lived 
their  aimless  lives  and  died  their  aimless  deaths.  To 
them  their  work  was  not  aimless;  each  in  his  own 
little  sphere  buzzed  happily  for  a  space  and  then  handed 
the  reins  over  to  his  son.  For  so  had  their  fathers 
done  to  them  in  days  gone  by,  and  the  thought  of 
breaking  away  from  accepted  tradition  never  entered 
their  minds. 

To  some  of  them,  as  they  grew  older,  there  came 
at  times  a  vague  discontent,  a  self-pity  for  the  futility 
of  their  existence.  The  great  world,  so  far  remote, 


278  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

with  its  teeming  life,  would  shoot  out  an  occasional 
tentacle  and  ruffle  the  peaceful  surface  of  the  pool. 
Some  public  man,  a  name  to  most  of  them,  but  a 
schoolfellow  of  the  local  lawyer,  would  make  a  speech, 
and  an  empire  would  listen. 

"I  always  thought  him  a  bit  of  an  ass  at  school." 
The  lawyer  with  immense  care  would  pot  the  pink  in 
the  evening  game  of  snooker.  "Still,  there  must  have 
been  something  in  him  after  all.  ..." 

And  being  human,  as  he  walked  home  that  evening 
to  his  small,  pleasant  house  on  the  London  road,  the 
comparison  would  strike  him — a  comparison  which 
sometimes  hurt. 

"I  wouldn't  change  with  him.  I'm  happier  as  I 
am."  Perhaps — but  was  it  a  man's  happiness  ?  .  .  . 

And  as  it  was  for  the  fathers,  so  it  was  for  the 
sons.  England  was  overcrowded  with  men  for  whom 
there  was  no  job;  no  job,  that  is,  which  genteel  con- 
vention would  allow  them  to  take.  A  few,  a  very 
few,  broke  away,  and  relatives  regarded  them  tear- 
fully as  lost  souls;  the  vast  majority  sank  into  the 
torpid  pool  of  utter  mediocrity,  and  sleep  enwrapped 
them. 

At  times  they  woke  up  and  felt  the  injustice  of  it; 
at  times  they  felt  that  life  did  not  hold  much  to  make 
things  worth  while.  They  struggled  and  wriggled 
like  a  hooked  fish,  and  their  struggles  and  wriggles 
gradually  became  more  feeble.  The  line  was  too  strong, 
the  line  of  insular  narrow-mindedness  and  conven- 
tion, which  held  them  body  and  soul. 

To  a  few  the  cynicism  of  realising  their  utter  futility 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH    279 

was  an  ever-present  scourge,  but  to  the  majority  a 
kindly  God  granted  a  special  dispensation  of  self-com- 
placency. Only  it  could  not  have  gone  on  much  longer. 
The  realisation  that  there  were  other  nations  in  the 
world — as  good  as  if  not  better  than,  ourselves,  and 
that  the  national  pastime  of  slumber  was  not  the  best 
method  of  dealing  with  them,  was  beginning  to  strike 
home.  The  certainty  that  unless  some  effort  was  made 
to  free  the  youth  of  England  from  the  enervating 
sluggish  atmosphere  into  which  it  had  drifted,  that 
youth  would  die,  was  beginning  to  be  regarded,  not 
as  the  wild  vaporising  of  a  fanatic,  but  as  a  cold, 
sober  fact.  How  long  would  have  elapsed  before 
some  action  was  taken,  what  that  action  would  have 
been,  whether  it  would  have  come  in  time — God  knows. 
Perhaps  mercifully  He  has  saved  us  the  bother  of  won- 
dering. He  has  permitted  another  solution.  And  the 
interesting  point  of  speculation  is  whether  the  solu- 
tion will  be  successful.  .  .  . 

In  the  year  of  grace,  1915,  in  the  month  of  July, 
Second  Lieutenant  John  Smith,  of  the  Royal  Rut- 
lands — known  to  his  intimates  by  the  more  homely 
title  of  Bunny — stood  on  the  mat  in  front  of  his 
Company  Commander.  I  use  the  phrase  in  its  mili- 
tary sense;  "the  mat"  does  not  apply  to  a  Turkish 
carpet  of  great  age,  it  signifies  a  state  of  affairs 
sometimes  referred  to  by  the  vulgar  phrase  of  "getting 
it  in  the  neck."  And  at  the  moment  Bunny  was  getting 
it  in  the  neck  and  most  other  portions  of  his  anatomy. 


280  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

Again  I  speak  metaphorically;  it  was  not  a  boxing 
competition. 

"I  am  told,  Mr.  Smith/'  remarked  the  Company 
Commander,  Major  Fortescue,  "that  last  night  when 
we  got  in  here  your  platoon  couldn't  find  its  billets, 
that  the  men  had  no  rum  or  bovril,  that  they  wan- 
dered about  all  the  night  trying  to  find  somewhere  to 
sleep,  and  that  ultimately  they  had  to  get  what  cover 
they  could  under  the  transport.  I  should  like  to  hear 
what  you  have  to  say  about  it." 

His  tone  implied  that  state  of  mind  which  actuates 
the  usual  demand  for  "reasons  in  writing."  No  exalted 
one  ever  asks  for  reasons  in  writing  without  the 
certain  knowledge  that  there  are  no  reasons  to  write, 
and  the  Company  Commander  expressed  in  no  unmis- 
takable fashion  that  there  was  nothing  to  say  about  it, 
and  if  there  were  it  would  be  ill-advised  to  say  it.  Had 
Bunny  been  older  and  more  experienced  he  would  have 
recognised  this  fact ;  he  would  have  said  straight  out : 
"Sir,  I  am  very  sorry.  It  was  inexcusable  on  my  part, 
but  I  chanced  my  arm  and  left  it  to  the  platoon  ser- 
geant. It  shall  not  occur  again." 

But  Bunny  was  not  old,  and  his  experience  of  France 
consisted  of  one  week.  So  he  argued.  Now,  to  argue 
at  any  time  with  a  senior  officer  on  parade,  even  when 
one  is  in  the  right,  is  foolish,  but  to  argue  when 
one  is  in  the  wrong  is  the  act  of  a  triple  damned 
fool.  Moreover,  he  argued  in  an  aggrieved  tone, 
and  men  have  been  hung  for  less. 

"I  saw  the  quartermaster,  sir,"  he  began  with  some 
warmth,  "and  he  told  me  all  the  billets  were  fixed  up. 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH    281 

He  showed  me  the  direction  of  my  platoon's,  and  I  told 
Sergeant  Jones  to  take  the  men  there.  Then  I  went 
to  look  for  my  own,  and  I  was  so  frightfully  wet  that 
I  took  off  my  boots.  Then  my  servant  brought  me  a 
cup  of  tea,  and  I  asked  him  if  the  men  were  all  right. 
He  said  they  were,  so  I  went  to  bed." 

The  expression  on  his  face  was  one  of  pained  sur- 
prise; he  exuded  that  air  of  self -righteousness  which 
says,  "What  the  devil  more  could  I  have  done  ?"  Out- 
side a  lorry  was  rumbling  and  lurching  over  the  pave 
road,  and  Bunny  watched  it  as  it  passed  the  window. 
He  was  feeling  just  a  trifle  like  a  martyr,  and  his 
whole  bearing  revealed  the  fact.  Only  in  France  a 
week;  three  days  in  the  trenches  in  a  sticky  and  un- 
healthy part  of  the  line,  during  which  time  he  con- 
sidered he  had  acquitted  himself  with  some  credit, 
and  then  to  be  cursed  because  his  confounded  sergeant 
had  failed  to  find  the  billets  for  his  platoon.  It  was, 
to  his  mind  at  the  moment,  honestly  unfair.  It  was 
no  pose ;  he  had,  during  a  particularly  warm  five  min- 
utes on  the  preceding  day,  borne  himself  well  in  new 
and  very  trying  circumstances;  he  had  heard  one  of 
his  men  remark  to  another,  after  it  was  over,  that 
the  new  bloke  wasn't  windy,  thank  Gawd,  and  he  had 
swelled  with  that  comfortable  and  pleasing  feeling 
which  comes  to  anyone  who  has  made  good  in  a  dan- 
gerous spot,  once  it  is  all  over.  In  fact,  Bunny  con- 
sidered himself  the  complete  officer,  and,  what  is  more, 
a  jolly  good  one  at  that. 

"Sit  down,  Smith."  The  Major's  voice  cut  into  his 
thoughts.  "Sit  down  in  that  chair,  and  have  a  smoke. 


282  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

I  want  to  talk  to  you,  and  put  one  or  two  things  in 
front  of  you  which  I  think  may  be  new." 

A  little  surprised  at  the  sudden  change  in  the  other 
man's  voice,  Bunny  did  as  he  was  told.  He  pulled  out 
his  case  and  lit  a  cigarette,  watching  his  senior's^face 
as  he  did  so.  He  was  looking  thoughtfully  out  of  the 
window,  and  seemed  to  be  deliberating  as  to  how  he 
would  begin.  The  short-clipped  moustache,  the  firm 
strong  chin,  and  the  four  medals  on  his  coat  struck 
the  boy  for  the  first  time;  and  for  the  first  time  he 
realised  that  this  man  was  not  the  type  who  would 
have  found  fault  with  him  for  no  adequate  reason. 
Of  a  sudden  he  began  to  feel  very  small,  very  young, 
very  ignorant;  his  self-complacency  was  oozing  away; 
he  wondered  if  he  was  such  a  damned  fine  fellow  after 
all.  And  while  he  wondered,  all  unconscious  of  the 
fact  that  in  the  same  room  with  him  was  a  teacher  who 
had  learned  from  the  Book  of  Life  and  Death,  that 
teacher  set  in  order  his  thoughts  the  better  to  teach 
this  youngster  so  utterly  ignorant  of  his  duties,  so  abso- 
lutely unmindful  of  his  responsibilities.  He  had  taught 
the  lesson  many  times  before,  he  was  destined  to  teach 
it  many  times  again — the  lesson  of  the  Army.  And 
the  principal  charm  of  it  all  lies  in  the  fact  that  in 
no  two  cases  is  the  syllabus  quite  the  same.  It  is  such 
an  intensely  individual — such  an  intensely  human  les- 
son, and  all  must  learn  it.  ... 

"What  were  you  before  the  war,  Smith?"  He 
turned  suddenly  to  his  subaltern,  and  his  tone  was 
very  friendly. 

"I  was  a  clerk  in  a  bank,  sir,  at  Murchester." 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH    283 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  the  place.  Fine  cathedral,  isn't 
there,  and  quite  a  good  cavalry  station?"  He  paused 
and  knocked  out  his  pipe.  "Ever  been  away  from 
Murchester  much  ?" 

"No,  sir,  except  for  ten  days'  or  so  holiday  each 
year." 

"You've  never  had  anybody  to  think  of  except  your- 
self, I  take  it?  I  mean,  you  aren't  married,  and  your 
salary  has  just  been  yours  to  spend  as  you  like?  When 
your  work  at  the  bank  was  done  you  were  free  for 
the  day,  and  were  your  own  master — what?" 

"Yes,  sir."  Bunny's  tone  was  a  little  doubtful.  "Of 
course,  I  lived  with  my  father,  and  .  .  ." 

"What  is  your  father?"  The  Major  apparently  did 
not  notice  the  pause. 

"He  is  a  solicitor,  sir,  in  Murchester,  and  we're 
a  pretty  large  family."  Then,  as  an  afterthought,  he 
added:  "My  mother  has  been  dead  some  years." 

"I  see."  His  company  officer  quietly  started  to  fill 
his  pipe.  "Did  you  like  your  job  at  the  bank?" 

"Oh !  I  don't  know,  sir,"  answered  Bunny.  "I  don't 
think  I  ever  thought  about  it  much.  It  was  pretty  dull 
at  times,  but  there  was  nothing  else  for  me  to  do. 
Sometimes  one  wanted  to  do  things,  and  to  see  places, 
but — it  wasn't  much  use  wanting." 

"Not  much  use !"  The  unconscious  weariness  in  the 
boy's  tone  told  its  own  tale  to  the  man  who  watched 
him.  "Not  much  use !"  The  old,  old  cry  of  the  lotus 
eater;  the  watchword  of  the  sleepers  who  watched  the 
doers.  And  in  so  many  cases  sleep  was  not  theirs  by 


284  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

preference.     They  only  wanted  a  little  help — a  small 
start  to  put  them  on  the  right  track. 

To  each  man  his  own  life — to  fail  or  to  succeed; 
and  the  result — a  little  better  or  a  little  worse  than 
he  found  it — to  his  sons.  That  is  the  law ;  but  it  goes 
not  with  the  consumption  of  lotus.  Sleep  is  not  its 
foundation;  it  is  the  law  of  the  workers.  .  .  . 

"When  I  first  sent  for  you  this  morning,"  remarked 
his  Company  Commander,  suddenly  breaking  the  si- 
lence, "I  was  extremely  angry  with  you;  when  you 
made  your  excuse  I  was  more  so.  I,  too,  last  night 
was  wet  to  the  skin,  and  I  slept  in  a  cowshed.  The 
room  which  you  had  was  mine,  but  you  had  had  a 
very  bad  doing  up  the  line,  you  were  new  to  the  game 
and  young,  so  I  gave  orders  for  you  to  be  taken  there." 
He  held  up  his  hand  to  check  Bunny's  half -uttered 
thanks.  "No,  don't  thank  me ;  I  am  merely  telling  you" 
now  in  order  to  point  a  moral. 

"On  your  own  showing,  Smith,  you  lived  a  life  be- 
fore this  war  absolutely  free  from  all  responsibility. 
You  had  your  dreams,  you  had  your  hopes — occasion- 
ally you  longed  for  something  different.  But  circum- 
stances, a  lack  of  money,  a  lack  of  initiative  decreed 
that  you  and  thousands  like  you  should  remain  in 
that  quiet,  placid  existence  which  formed  your  sur- 
roundings, that  you  should  live  in  it  and  ultimately 
die  in  it.  There  was  never  anything  big  enough  to 
shake  you  out  of  the  commonplace  rut,  until  this  war 
came  along,  which  has  picked  you  up,  taken  you  by 
the  scruff  of  the  neck,  and  dropped  you  into  a  state  of 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH    285 

affairs  of  which  even  now  you  personally  are  pro- 
foundly ignorant." 

He  glanced  at  his  subaltern  smoking  in  the  chair, 
and  the  look  he  saw  in  the  boy's  face  caused  him  to 
smile  slightly. 

"Perhaps  you  think  that  you  are  not  profoundly 
ignorant?"  His  eyes  were  twinkling  as  he  spoke. 
"That  you  have  been  blooded,  eh — in  that  little  show 
at  Caterpillar  Corner?" 

"I  didn't  know  you  knew  about  it,  sir,"  stammered 
Bunny. 

"My  dear  boy,  it's  my  job  to  know  everything  that 
concerns  my  company,  just  as  it's  your  job,  Smith,  to 
know  everything  that  concerns  your  platoon." 

Bunny  Smith  reddened  and  shifted  uneasily  in  his 
seat. 

"Don't  you  understand,  boy,  that  the  scrap  the 
other  evening  was  nothing,  nothing — at  all.  You  did 
well,  but  you  did  no  more  than  I  expect  of  any  N.C.O. 
or  private  in  my  company.  That  isn't  what  an  officer 
is  for.  I  suppose  you  thought  when  you  got  your 
commission  that  the  job  of  a  regimental  officer  was 
an  easy  one,  that  any  damn  fool  could  do  it — what  ?" 

"I — er — don't  know  that  I  ever  thought  much 
about  it,  sir,"  answered  Bunny. 

"Nor  did  anyone  else  think  about  it,  Smith,  before 
the  war,  and  only  a  few  of  them  do  now  until  they 
try.  The  old  Regular  Army,  which  contained  the 
model  by  which  the  regimental  officer  to-day  must 
mould  himself,  was  regarded  by  most  of  the  world's 
great  thinkers  as  the  happy  hunting-ground  of  men 


286  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

whose  hobbies  in  life  were  sport  and  adultery.  And 
the  regimental  officer  was  above  trying  to  refute  the 
fallacy  to  a  crowd  of  beings  who  took  not  the  slight- 
est interest  in  his  existence."  The  speaker  smiled 
cynically. 

"However,  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  Now 
that  the  Army  is  no  longer  a  thing  apart  from  the 
nation,  now  that  the  Army,  in  fact,  is  the  nation,  the 
nation  has  an  opportunity  of  adjusting  its  point  of 
view.  And  you,  and  fellows  like  you,  are  a  very 
large  part  of  the  nation;  fellows  who  have  never  before 
had  anyone  to  think  of  except  themselves,  fellows  who 
have  merely  been  individuals,  with  an  individual's  out- 
look. 

"I  want  you  to  realise,  Smith,  that  that  state  of 
affairs  has  ceased,  absolutely  and  finally.  When  you 
took  a  commission  you  took  a  dam  sight  more  than 
a  piece  of  paper.  You  definitely  took  a  responsibility 
on  yourself,  the  responsibility  of  forty  men's  lives, 
comfort,  and  well-being.  And  you've  got  to  fill  the 
bill.  Your  success  in  filling  it  will  not  only  be  your 
measure  of  success  as  an  officer,  it  will  be  the  meas- 
ure of  the  change  in  you  after  the  war. 

"You  must  get  rid  once  and  for  all  of  the  idea  that 
in  peace  an  officer  has  got  nothing'  to  do,  and  that  in 
war  anyone  can  do  it.  You've  got  to  get  into  your 
head  straight  away  the  rock  bottom  of  the  regimental 
officer,  without  which  he  is  not  worth  a  curse — the 
knowing  of  his  men.  The  end-all  and  be-all  of  one's 
life  is  knowledge  of  human  nature ;  men  and  the  ways 
pf  men  are  one's  only  study.  And  when  you've  studied 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH    287 

your  men  and  their  ways,  and  what  they  will  do  and 
how  to  make  them  do  it;  when  you  can  hold  them  and 
lead  them  and  get  the  last  half -ounce  out  of  them,  and 
then  keep  them  willing  after  that — well,  then  you  can 
call  yourself  a  good  regimental  officer.  But  you  won't 
do  it,  my  lad,  by  going  to  sleep  in  your  billet  while 
your  platoon  is  wandering  about  in  the  pouring  rain 
looking  for  a  place  to  sleep  which  you  ought  to  have 
found  for  them." 

"I'm  sorry,  sir;  I  didn't  think  of  it  that  way  be- 
fore." Bunny  Smith  looked  his  Company  Commander 
straight  in  the  face,  with  a  new  look  in  his  eyes. 

"My  dear  boy,  if  I  thought  for  one  moment  that 
you  had,  you'd  have  had  to  be  revived  with  brandy 
by  the  time  I'd  finished  with  you.  All  I  do  say  is 
• — think  in  future.  I  know  it  was  thoughtlessness 
and  ignorance  on  your  part;  try  not  to  do  it  again." 

"I  won't  do  it  again,  sir."  Bunny's  tone  was  em- 
phatic. 

Fortescue  smiled.  "Perhaps  not  that  particular 
crime,  but  there  are  very  few  of  us  who  can  work  out 
our  salvation  after  only  one  slip.  It's  the  principle 
of  responsibility  that  I  want  you  to  get  into  your 
head,  that  responsibility  which  bands  men  together 
into  willing  co-operation.  It  was  the  keynote  of  the 
old  Army — co-operation;  it  will  have  to  be  the  key- 
note of  the  new  ones  if  we  are  going  to  pull  through. 
The  pity  of  it  is  that  it  is  the  one  thing  conspicuous 
by  its  absence  in  civil  life." 

He  lit  a  cigarette  and  picked  up  his  hat  and  gloves. 

"I  think— a  little  lunch." 


288  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 


II 

Thus  ended  Bunny  Smith's  first  telling-off,  admin- 
istered by  a  man  of  kindly  understanding.  It  might 
have  been  a  cursing  administered  by  a  fool,  in  which 
case  the  education  which  I  shall  endeavour  to  portray 
would  not  have  advanced — it  would  have  gone  back. 
More,  it  might  have  been  arrested  for  good.  To  curse 
laziness  is  right;  to  curse  ignorance — excusable  igno- 
rance— or  thoughtlessness  which  is  the  result  of  that 
ignorance,  is  the  act  of  a  mere  fool.  And  Bunny  was 
very  ignorant.  .  .  . 

When  ten  days  before  he  had  waited  for  the  boat- 
train  he  had  treated  the  matter  more  or  less  as  a  joke, 
and  a  joke  which  had  all  the  element  of  novelty  in  it 
His  father,  good  man  and  true,  had  walked  up  and 
down  the  platform  with  him  at  Victoria,  while  Matilda, 
his  sister,  with  her  best  hat  donned  for  the  occasion, 
had  walked  with  them,  alternating  between  a  strong 
desire  to  cry  and  the  proud  certainty  that  the  right 
to  prefix  Second  Lieutenant  to  her  brother's  name  set- 
tled the  fate  of  Prussia. 

And  Bunny  himself — well,  he  felt  much  like  a  boy 
going  to  school  for  the  first  time.  There  was  a  pecu- 
liar sinking  in  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  an  inarticulate 
wish  that  the  engine  would  break  down,  and  the  actual 
moment  of  going  would  be  put  off.  He  had  found 
home  dull  in  the  past;  his  bank  life  seemed  very  re- 
mote, very  indistinct;  still,  it  had  been  his  life,  his 
whole  life.  Murchester  struck  him  as  something  very 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH    289 

much  more  desirable  than  it  had  ever  seemed  before; 
old  Johnson,  the  bank,  home  and  peace,  were  slipping 
away  from  him ;  and,  in  their  place — the  unknown. 

"Good-bye,  old  man."  His  father  was  speaking 
through  the  window.  "Write  when  you  can." 

"Of  course  I  will,  dad."  His  voice  was  gruff,  and 
his  father  seemed  a  little  indistinct. 

"God  bless  you,  my  boy."  The  train  began  to  move 
gently,  and  for  one  wild  moment  Bunny  almost  hurled 
himself  out  of  the  carriage,  the  instinct  to  cling  on 
to  his  father,  to  Matilda,  to  the  last  remaining  tie  of 
the  old  order  was  so  strong.  Then  he  sat  back  in 
his  seat,  and  through  a  strange  blur  he  watched  his 
father  walk  slowly  away  with  Matilda  clinging  to 
his  arm.  The  new  order  had  come;  he  had  answered 
the  call  to  the  younger  generation.  But  he  didn't  real- 
ise that  at  the  moment;  he  only  saw  that  his  father, 
with  Matilda  close  by  him,  seemed  of  a  sudden  very 
old,  and  that  his  face  was  working  strangely. 

Thus  had  Bunny  Smith  left  the  things  he  knew  of, 
and  stepped  into  an  unknown  world.  The  trouble 
was  that  he  had  not  the  slightest  idea  how  unknown 
it  was. 

When  he  reviewed  what  his  Company  Commander 
had  said  he  knew  that  he  had,  in  the  bottom  of  his 
heart,  always  considered  an  officer's  job  an  easy  one; 
that  any  damn  fool  could  do  it.  He  knew  that  it 
had  been — and  was  even  now — a  prevalent  idea 
amongst  numbers  of  people  at  home. 

It  had  seemed  to  Bunny  that  the  amount  of  brain 
required  to  learn  the  rudiments  of  bombing,  the  in- 


290  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

tricacies  of  forming  fours,  and  all  the  other  usual 
stock-in-trade  of  a  second  lieutenant  of  feet  was  not 
very  great;  that  the  truly  material  side  of  his  new 
job  was  but  little  harder  and  a  great  deal  less  weari- 
some than  informing  Farmer  Giles  that  his  account 
was  ten  pounds  seven  shillings  and  one  penny  over- 
drawn. And  if  Bunny,  when  his  thoughts  had  run 
on  these  lines,  had  been  careful  to  keep  the  word 
"material"  before  him,  he  would  not  have  been  much 
adrift  in  his  calculations.  But  he  didn't,  and  that, 
and  that  alone,  is  where  his  ignorance  lay;  that  and 
that  alone  is  where  lies  the  ignorance  of  thousands  of 
others.  To  them  soldiering  is  just  a  basely  material 
trade,  the  trade  of  killing,  and  there  is  nothing  else 
in  it.  Moreover,  there  is  no  money  in  it,  and  since 
its  objects  are  frankly  destructive  and  not  constructive, 
and  carry  with  them  a  maximum  of  suffering  and  dis- 
comfort, what  good  can  it  possibly  do  to  the  world 
at  large?  It  is  a  necessity  in  this  case  they  admit, 
but  it  is  a  vile  necessity;  in  the  future,  it  must  no 
longer  be  a  necessity.  On  that  point  it  were  futile 
to  argue — it  is  more  than  likely  they  are  right;  but 
with  regard  to  the  idea  that  soldiering  is  a  basely  ma- 
terial trade,  whose  sole  object  is  killing,  and  nothing 
more,,  only  those  who  have  tried  it  can  know  the  ab- 
surdity. It  is  equivalent  to  saying  that  there  is  noth- 
ing more  in  boxing  than  knowing  where  to  hit  a  man ; 
that  there  is  nothing  more  in  cricket  than  hitting  a 
ball  to  the  boundary.  And  it  is  even  more  grotesque 
than  either  of  those  examples,  which  leave  out  all  men- 
tion of  preliminary  training,  for  this  reason.  The 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH    291 

training  for  boxing  is  entirely  material,  so,  to  a  large 
extent,  is  the  making  of  a  cricketer,  whereas  the  train- 
ing of  a  soldier — a  good  soldier — is,  to  a  very  large 
extent,  spiritual.  Not  religious — certainly  not,  though 
a  good  man  may  make  a  good  soldier;  but  spiritual 
as  opposed  to  material,  moral  as  opposed  to  physical. 
And  it  is  that  side  of  a  soldier's  training,  infinitely 
the  most  important  and  difficult,  which  many  people 
forget  all  about. 

This  war  is  a  hideous  thing;  there  can  be  but  one 
hope,  and  that,  that  there  should  never  be  another. 
That  is  the  ideal  to  which  every  thinking  man  must 
look;  but  in  the  looking,  let  him  remember  that  it 
is  an  ideal.  The  man  on  top  of  the  cliff  whose  eyes 
are  fixed  on  the  horizon  is  apt  to  overlook  the  breakers 
below,  and  it  is  those  breakers  which  are  our  practi- 
cal concern.  And  so  to  those  whose  one  obsession 
is  the  prevention  of  the  catastrophe  again,  because 
of  its  unredeemed  vileness,  I  would  point  out  one 
all-important  fact.  Things  can  never  be  the  same 
again;  for  good  or  ill  the  civilian  life  of  the  Empire 
has  been  changed — changed  by  war.  And  unless  we 
take  account  of  that  change,  unless  we  keep  alive 
the  improvement  in  the  young  manhood,  we  shall  be 
back  where  we  were  before.  And  there  will  be  with 
us  the  added  bitterness  of  men  who  have  tasted  some- 
thing better.  Which  way  lies  revolution.  For  there 
has  been  an  improvement — a  wonderful  improvement. 
Whether  it  is  worth  the  price  is  neither  here  nor  there 
— for  the  price  had  to  be  paid.  There  was  no  choice 
about  that — save  that  of  permanent  dishonour.  And 


292  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

surely  the  more  extortionate  the  price,  the  greater 
should  be  our  care  in  salving  the  goods.  .  .  . 


in 

Now  Bunny  Smith  had,  at  any  rate,  one  attribute, 
which  helped  him  in  the  new  life  to  which  he  had  come. 
He  was  naturally  of  a  cheerful  disposition,  and  though 
not  even  his  staunchest  friend  could  have  called  him 
good-looking,  he  had  that  honest,  open,  grinning  coun- 
tenance which  cheers  those  who  contemplate  it,  which 
made  many  of  those  things  that  come  at  the  beginning 
of  an  officer's  education  much  easier  for  his  teacher 
and  himself. 

Take  a  small  case.  It  had  not  ever  occurred  to 
Bunny  in  the  past  that  because  the  man  next  door 
did  not  wear  a  coat  on  a  cold  morning  he  was  in  any 
way  called  on  to  follow  his  example — in  which  surmise 
he  was  perfectly  correct.  Where  life  is  individual 
the  wearing  or  leaving  off  of  any  form  of  garment  is 
purely  a  matter  of  individual  taste.  And  so,  quite 
unthinkingly,  he  appeared  one  morning  on  parade  with 
a  new  and  expensive  British  warm  overcoat  adorning 
his  person  while  all  the  men  were  uncloaked. 

A  little  thing,  you  say!  Quite  so — very  little;  but 
it's  the  little  things  which  count  almost  more  than 
the  big  ones  when  dealing  with  human  nature,  and 
it  is  understanding  and  sympathy  with  the  little  things 
which  makes  the  good  regimental  officer.  It  shows  a 
kindly  consideration  for  the  feelings  of  others,  with- 
out which  no  man  can  hope  to  be  a  leader.  It  shows  that 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH    293 

a  man  is  playing  for  the  side — not  for  himself.  It  is 
just  a  question  of  unselfishness  and  thought  fulness. 

Take  another  small  matter.  Close  by  the  rest  bil- 
lets of  the  battalion  was  a  largish  town.  It  boasted 
an  officers'  club,  where  one  could  play  the  enthralling 
games  of  ping-pong  and  French  billiards.  It  also 
boasted  of  tea-shops,  and — other  pleasures  too  numer- 
ous to  enlarge  upon.  In  normal  times  Bunny  would 
have  regarded  it  as  the  supreme  essence  of  boredom, 
beside  which  even  Murchester  shone  dazzlingly;  but 
ideas  vary  according  to  one's  doings,  and  after  the 
trenches  that  town  appealed  as  a  place  of  riotous  rev- 
elry. So  one  afternoon  he  made  arrangements  to  visit 
it  with  a  pal,  and  approached  his  Company  Commander 
for  leave.  .  .  . 

"Of  course,  my  dear  fellow,  go  by  all  means."  His 
Major  looked  up  from  the  paper  he  was  reading.  Then 
he  suddenly  remembered  a  little  fact  which  had  es- 
caped Bunny's  attention.  "By  the  way,  isn't  No.  12 
platoon  playing  No.  10  at  football  to-day?"  No.  12 
was  Bunny's  platoon. 

"Yes,  sir ;  but  I'm  not  playing  myself,"  said  Bunny. 

"That  doesn't  matter  a  damn,"  answered  the  other. 
"Your  job  is  to  be  there  and  cheer  'em  on.  It's  your 
platoon,  boy.  Do  you  get  me?  If  it  was  anything 
vitally  important  I  wouldn't  say  a  word,  but  I  take  it 
you're  going  to  the  square  to  drink  beer — what!  and 
then  have  tea?" 

Bunny  admitted  the  soft  impeachment. 

"Then  you  stop  behind,  Smith,  and  go  to-morrow." 
The  Major  looked  at  him  kindly.  "It's  just  as  much 


294  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

your  job  to  do  a  thing  like  that  as  it  is  to  turn  up 
on  parade,  as  it  was  to  go  to  the  bank  before  the  war. 
You  see  what  I  mean?" 

And  Bunny  saw  what  he  meant.  Gradually  he  began 
to  realise,  with  the  help  of  other  little  examples  of  a 
similar  kind,  what  a  regimental  officer's  job  is ;  what  a 
regimental  officer  must  be  if  he  would  make  good.  The 
real  meaning  of  the  words,  "his  men"  came  home  to 
him;  the  real  joy  of  inspiring  those  men  with  love  for 
him  by  his  own  kindly  thought  for  them.  He  got  to 
know  them  personally,  their  troubles  and  worries,  their 
characters  and  failings.  He  began  to  realise  the  won- 
derful joy  of  having  thirty  or  forty  men  looking  to 
him  for  advice  and  assistance,  treating  him  as  a  per- 
sonal friend  as  well  as  an  officer.  He  got  most 
frightfully  keen  on  his  platoon's  efficiency;  he  wanted 
it  to  be  the  best  platoon  in  the  best  company  in  the 
best  battalion  in  the  Army.  And  he  set  to  work  to 
try  and  get  the  same  spirit  into  his  men.  .  .  . 

It  was  at  a  certain  battalion  exercise  one  morning 
that  he  learned  perhaps  the  biggest  lesson  of  any,  and 
made  the  biggest  stride  forward  towards  his  goal. 
At  the  time  he  almost  wept,  so  great  was  his  mortifi- 
cation and  shame;  but  such  is  often  the  way.  It  is 
immaterial  what  actually  occurred,  but  Bunny  got  his 
platoon  tied  up  in  the  most  hopeless  confusion.  Then 
he  got  flustered  and  swore,  which  made  matters  worse. 
Then  he  became  aware  that  the  entire  battalion  was 
watching  his  efforts,  which  made  matters  worse  still. 
Finally,  the  Colonel  suddenly  appeared  on  the  scene 
to  find  out  what  the  trouble  was. 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH    295 

He  saw  a  jumbled  mass  of  men,  and  he  also  saw 
the  Company  Commander.  Then  he  let  drive. 

"Damn  it,  Major  Fortescue!"  he  barked;  "your  com- 
pany is  drilling  very  badly.  What  the  devil  is  the 
matter?  You're  keeping  us  all  back." 

Bunny  heard  his  Major's  answer :  "I  am  sorry,  sir; 
I  will  put  it  right." 

Not  a  word  of  blame  for  his  subordinate;  the  re- 
sponsibility was  his.  In  half  a  minute  the  company 
was  straightened  out  and  the  exercise  proceeded.  .  .  . 

"What  was  the  trouble  this  morning,  Smith?  Don't 
you  know  your  drill  ?"  The  morning's  work  was  over 
and  Bunny  was  standing  in  front  of  his  Company 
Commander.  "A  bad  show;  you  let  the  company 
down.  Moreover,  you  undermined  your  platoon's  con- 
fidence in  you.  Nos.  9,  10,  and  n  are  now  telling 
No.  12  what  damned  fools  they  looked  on  parade." 

"By  Jove!  sir,  I'm  sorry,"  stammered  Bunny.  "It 
jvas  jolly  good  of  you  not  to  blame  me  to  the  CO." 

For  a  moment  the  Major  did  not  answer.  He 
was  thinking,  not  for  the  first  time,  of  the  difference 
between  the  ideas  in  which  he  had  been  steeped  as 
long  as  he  could  remember,  and  the  instinctive  ideas  of 
the  boy  before  him.  Blame  somebody  or  something, 
even  if  it's  only  the  office  cat,  as  long  as  you  get  off. 

"If  anything  went  wrong  with  your  platoon,  Smith, 
and  you  blamed  your  sergeant  to  me  and  put  the  re- 
sponsibility on  him,  you'd  be  on  the  mat.  After  I've 
had  it  out  with  you,  you  can  go  and  pitch  into  him 
if  you  like,  but  as  far  as  I'm  concerned  it's  your  show. 
This  morning  it  was  mine.  No  officer  ever  attempts 


296  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

to  excuse  himself  by  sheltering  behind  a  subordinate; 
that  is  an  unwritten  law  of  the  service*  Never  forget 
it.  And  now,  go  and  read  up  your  drill,  and  see  that 
this  morning's  effort  doesn't  occur  again.  To  lead  your 
men  they  must  have  confidence  in  you." 

Which  was  a  big  stride  in  knowledge,  and  there- 
fore a  big  stride  towards  his  goal,  only  at  the  beginning 
I  said  biggest.  That  comes  in  this  way : 

SCENE  :  A  barn,  with  No.  12  platoon  assembled  play- 
ing cards,  writing,  etc.  Time,  8.30  p.m.  that  night. 
Weather,  vile.  Distance  from  officers'  mess  a 
quarter  of  a  mile.  Enter  Bunny  with  the  sergeant. 

Sergeant:    'Shun ! 

Bunny:  Sit  down.  Are  you  all  comfortable? 
(Long  and  embarrassing  pause.)  I  say — er — you 
men,  I — er — let  you — er — down  this  morning.  Dam' 
bad  show.  Er — my  fault.  (Pause.)  Won't  occur 
again.  Very  sorry.  (Another  pause.)  And  we  are 
bally  well  the  best  platoon.  Er — good  night.  (Exit 
with  sergeant.) 

Omnes:    Good  night,  sir. 

Private  Snooks  to  next-door  neighbour:  Lumme, 
that  ain't  'alf  bad  of  the  little  perisher.  Raining  like 
'ell,  and  'e  comes  all  the  way  down  'ere  to  say  'e's 
sorry  for  making  a  ruddy  fool  of  'isself. 

And  so  ad  nauseam  could  one  continue  telling  of 
these  incidents  which  sound  so  little  and  mean  so  much 
in  giving  the  regiment  its  soul ;  the  soul  without  which 
it  is  dead  and  useless.  That  feeling  which  every  officer 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH    297 

must  have,  of  caring  for  his  men,  of  jealousy  for  their 
comfort  and  well-being,  without  which  he  cannot  be 
a  real  leader,  comes  not  at  once  to  the  civilian  with 
an  outlook  utterly  individual.  He  does  not  think;  he 
does  not  realise  his  responsibility;  he  does  not  instinc- 
tively grasp  the  fact  like  a  second  nature  that  it  is  his 
job.  It  only  comes  with  time  and  trouble. 

But  who  shall  say  that  when  it  has  come  that  man 
is  not  a  better  man,  is  not  nearer  the  heart  of  what 
matters  than  he  was  before? 

And  one  thing  is  certain.  Unless  the  team  are 
brought  to  their  test  full  to  the  bursting  point  with 
that  true  co-operation  which  only  thoughtful  leader- 
ship can  produce,  that  team  will  fail.  Unless  they 
have  been  cheered  in  their  boredom,  helped  in  their 
troubles,  looked  after  during  their  periods  of  training, 
they  will  not — they  cannot — face  the  big  crucial  reali- 
ties and  succeed.  Death  is  a  big  reality;  killing  is  a 
big  reality,  and  the  team  must  face  both.  Only  the 
unselfish  instinct  to  play  the  game  for  the  side  can 
pull  it  through;  only  ceaseless  leadership  in  its  true 
sense  can  inculcate  that  instinct.  Wherein  lies  the 
glory  and  tragedy  of  war;  all  must  learn  the  lesson, 
not  all  will  remain  to  teach  it. 


IV 

In  the  year  of  grace  1916,  in  the  month  of  July, 
Captain  John  Smith,  still  known  to  his  intimates  by 
the  more  homely  title  of  Bunny,  stood  in  a  trench  in 
front  of  his  commanding  officer.  For  three  weeks  the 


298  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

battle  of  the  Somme  had  raged,  and  the  Royal  Rut- 
lands  were  back  for  the  second  time.  Overhead  the 
shells  droned  on  their  way,  while  great  clouds  of  black 
and  yellow  fumes  belched  ceaselessly  from  the  torn 
upland  around  where  the  crumps  exploded.  Above 
the  trench  shrapnel  was  bursting  with  its  vicious  crack, 
and  a  swarm  of  aeroplanes  buzzed  backwards  and  for- 
wards in  the  sky.  Occasionally  the  rattle  of  a  machine- 
gun  mingled  with  the  orchestra,  but  for  the  most  part 
the  infantry  was  silent — waiting.  In  half  an  hour 
they  were  going  over  the  top. 

"Have  you  studied  the  ground,  Bunny?"  His  old 
Company  Commander,  now  his  C.O.,  lit  a  cigarette 
and  took  out  his  map. 

"I  have,  sir."  Bunny  took  off  his  tin  hat  and  mopped 
his  forehead.  "My  hat!  ain't  it  hot?" 

"That  small  knoll  comes  right  in  the  middle  of 
your  company's  last  objective.  You  must  hold  that 
knoll,  Bunny,  at  all  costs." 

With  a  slight  tightening  of  his  jaw  Bunny  looked 
over  the  parapet,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  little  knoll 
in  question.  Such  a  harmless  little  mound  of  earth; 
such  an  insignificant  little  bit  of  dirt,  but  it  commanded 
the  whole  objective  of  their  brigade.  And  so  it  must 
be  held  at  all  costs. 

At  last  he  spoke  quite  briefly.  "It  shall  be  held, 
sir."  Then,  as  if  from  an  afterthought,  "At  all  costs." 

The  Colonel  nodded.  "Good  luck,  old  boy.  So 
long."  He  passed  out  of  sight  down  the  trench, 
squeezing  between  the  waiting  men.  Bunny  heard  him 
speaking  to  them  as  he  went,  a  word  here  and  there,  a 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH    299 

kindly  pat  on  the  back,  a  friend  and  a  leader  amongst 
his  men. 

"The  Rutlands  in  the  post  of  honour  again,  boys. 
Never  failed  yet,  and  there's  no  damn  chance  of  our 
beginning  now.  Boches — beat  to  a  frazzle.  .  .  .  Keep 
at  it,  lads — and  go  steady.  .  .  ."  His  voice  died  away 
as  he  rounded  a  traverse,  and  Bunny  sat  down  thought- 
fully on  the  remnants  of  a  fire-step. 

"At  all  costs."  He  recalled  the  order  he  had  once 
heard  one  of  the  finest  colonels  of  one  of  the  finest 
regiments  in  the  world  give  to  a  company  officer,  many 
months  before: 

"Tell  your  men,  my  dear  old  Pumpkin,  to  get  into 
that  trench,  to  stay  there,  and  if  necessary  to  die  there." 
The  order  had  been  obeyed  to  the  letter. 

There  were  twenty  minutes  to  go  before  the  barrage 
started  creeping  over  the  ground  in  front  of  them, 
and  during  those  twenty  minutes  Bunny  did  some 
hard  thinking.  He  felt  quite  cool;  his  whole  mental 
attitude  was  merely  intensely  introspective.  Some- 
how he  knew  deep  down  in  his  mind  that  it  was  the 
end,  but  it  had  no  effect  upon  him.  For  the  time 
being  he  was  a  detached  spirit  viewing  things  from 
an  unbiassed  standpoint. 

With  a  feeling  of  cynical  amusement  he  recalled 
that  spring  morning  in  Murchester  when  his  uniform 
was  seen  in  all  its  glory  for  the  first  time.  Matilda, 
his  eldest  sister,  neglected  her  household  duties  in 
order  that  she  might  admire  and  revere  it  from  all 
conceivable  vantage  points;  the  twins — aged  nine — 
paused  in  their  matutinal  consumption  of  toffee  to  poke 


300  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

it  with  sticky  fingers;  even  Claribel,  the  charwoman's 
daughter,  coming  down  the  stairs  with  a  bucket  of 
soapy  water,  stopped  abruptly  and  remarked  with  con- 
viction: "Lumme!  ain't  'e  a  bit  of  orl  rite?"  Which 
it  must  be  conceded  was  high  praise  from  Claribel. 

Outwardly,  Bunny  was  not  unduly  excited.  Before 
coming  downstairs  he  had  by  means  of  a  series  of 
back-breaking  manoeuvres  carried  out  with  his  sister's 
hand-glass  and  his  own  mirror,  satisfied  himself  that 
the  crease  in  the  back,  which  he  had  noticed  at  the 
last  fitting,  had  disappeared.  He  therefore  felt  per- 
fectly qualified  to  be  inspected  by  the  female  members 
of  his  family;  in  fact,  he  rather  liked  it.  Claribel's 
honest  words  had  brought  a  thrill  to  his  heart,  which 
he  would  never  have  believed  possible. 

"It's  beautiful,  Bunny,  simply  beautiful."  Matilda 
at  length  found  her  tongue. 

"I  think  it  fits  all  right,  doesn't  it?"  returned  Bunny 
with  suitable  nonchalance.  "Perhaps  the  coat  might 
have  been  an  inch  longer;  a  little  more  in  at  the  waist." 
He  paused  to  let  this  great  utterance  take  effect.  "How- 
ever, I  think  I'll  just  stroll  down  the  town.  I  might 
even  look  up  old  Johnson." 

Except  for  the  fact  that  he  inadvertently  put  on 
his  old  cloth  cap  instead  of  his  new  khaki  hat  his 
exit  left  nothing  to  be  desired,  and  when  the  mistake 
had  been  rectified,  and  the  front  door  finally  slammed 
behind  him,  Bunny  was  quite  good  to  look  upon  as 
he  strolled  down  the  High  Street  of  Murchester  to 
look  up  old  Johnson. 

The  latter  was  old  by  comparison  only,  perhaps 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH     301 

forty,  perhaps  fifty,  with  an  ailing  wife  and  three  small 
children.  With  his  hair  sadly  thinned  on  the  top 
of  his  head,  his  shoulders  bowed  with  a  slight  stoop, 
and  his  lifeless  tired  eyes,  he  had  always  seemed  to 
Bunny  and  the  other  clerks  the  typical  old  man. 
As  to  his  exact  age  they  had  never  troubled  to 
think;  anyway,  to  twenty,  fifty  seems  a  bit  remote. 
They  had  accepted  him  as  part  of  the  bank,  as  part 
of  the  furniture  along  with  the  ledgers  and  the  desk.  . . . 

If  ever  they  realised  that  he  seemed  tired — God 
knows  how  tired — it  never  struck  them  that  it  con- 
cerned them  in  any  way  personally.  Once  Bunny 
had  remarked  to  a  pal  sitting  next  him  that  the  old 
boy  looked  more  like  a  walking  nightmare  than  usual. 
A  customer  was  talking  to  him,  and  the  customer 
was  not  pleased  with  a  mistake  in  his  account. 

"I  am  very  sorry,  sir,"  murmured  old  Johnson. 
"I  hope  it  has  caused  you  no  inconvenience.  A  stupid 
error  on  my  part"  / 

The  customer  had  left  muttering,  and  the  cashier 
came  towards  Bunny. 

"You  made  a  mistake,  Smith,  in  this  pass-book. 
Try  to  be  more  careful  in  future.  It's  almost  impos- 
sible for  me  to  keep  an  eye  on  everything." 

That  was  all.  No  recrimination;  no  cursing — just 
a  request. 

"His  wife  is  ill  again,"  whispered  his  pal  to  Bunny, 
"and  there's  a  fourth  squeaker  on  the  way.  Good 
Lord!  there  ought  to  be  a  law  passed  against  fellows 
like  him  on  his  income  having  four  brats." 

Bunny  had  agreed;  and  the  little  fact  that  the 


302  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

cashier  had  accepted  the  blame,  had  not  tried  to  excuse 
himself  to  the  customer  by  throwing  the  onus  on  "one 
of  the  clerks,"  somehow  escaped  his  notice.  Doubtless 
it  was  a  very  little  fact;  now  it  struck  him  as  it  had 
not  done  them. 

Bunny  had  turned  through  the  well-remembered 
swing-doors  with  the  faintest  suspicion  of  a  swagger. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Johnson."  He  leaned  over  the 
counter  and  spoke  to  the  cashier.  "How's  the  bank?" 

"Why,  Smith,  I'm  delighted  to  see  you."  Old  John- 
son's tired  eyes  showed  real  pleasure.  "I  must  con- 
gratulate you  on  your  commission,  though  I  expect 
you  were  sorry  to  leave  your  old  regiment." 

"I  was,  in  a  way,  but  they  wanted  officers,  and  the 
Colonel  offered  me  a  commission  if  I'd  care  to  have 
one,  so  here  I  am."  Bunny's  eyes  wandered  round  the 
familiar  room  till  they  came  to  his  own  desk.  A  girl 
was  sitting  there,  entering  things  up  in  his  ledger.  For 
a  moment  he  frowned ;  a  girl,  a  damned  woman  doing 
a  man's  work.  Then  he  realised  Mr.  Johnson  was 
speaking  again. 

"Looks  different  now,  doesn't  it,  the  old  place  with 
girls  instead  of  men.  Baxter  and  Tomkins  are  the 
only  two  of  the  old  lot  left,  and  they  couldn't  pass 
the  doctor." 

Bunny  leant  forward,  and  his  voice  dropped  to  a 
confidential  whisper.  "D'you  find  these  women  are  a 
success?  Are  they  as  reliable  as  we  used  to  be?" 

A  slight  inscrutable  smile  flashed  over  the  cashier's 
face.  "Once  they  get  into  it  they  are  just  as  reliable. 
I  very  rarely  find  any  mistake  in  a  pass-book  nowa- 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH    303 

days."  It  might  have  been  a  sudden  glint  of  sun  that 
caused  the  heightened  colour  on  Bunny's  face — per- 
haps. "Yes,  the  girls  have  been  splendid." 

He  turned  to  an  excitable  lady  who  had  just  come 
in,  and  soothed  her  gently. 

"This  item,  madam,  to  which  you  allude  is  four 
shillings  and  twopence  for  a  new  cheque-book  of  fifty 
cheques.  Each  cheque  costs  a  penny,  which  we  charge 
you  in  your  account.  No;  I  don't  think  it  would  be 
quite  fair  for  the  bank  to  pay  for  customers'  cheques. 
Good  morning,  madam,  good  morning." 

His  eyes  met  Bunny's  over  the  counter,  and  there 
was  something  fierce  in  them.  "That,  Smith,  is  my 
life.  For  thirty  years  I've  been  doing  that.  I  shall 

continue  doing  it  until  the  end.  The  end "  He 

repeated  the  two  words  as  if  they  were  something 
sacred.  "My  God!  boy,  I  don't  know  if  you  ever 
pray,  but  if  you  do,  go  down  on  your  knees  and  thank 
God  that  to  you  has  come  deliverance  from  a  servitude 
that  is  sometimes  worse  than  death.  If  only  I  had 
been  twenty  years  younger  to-day,  if  only.  .  .  .  Good 
morning,  Mr.  Giles.  Great  weather,  isn't  it?" 

The  mask  was  back  in  place ;  old  Johnson,  courteous, 
tired  old  Johnson  was  talking  affably  with  the  farmer 
who  had  just  come  breezily  in.  And  Bunny,  with  an 
odd  sensation  that  he  had  gazed  into  a  man's  naked 
soul,  had  stepped  out  into  the  sunny,  sleepy  street. 

It  came  back  to  him  now,  that  moment,  with  a 
meaning  totally  new.  "To  you  has  come  deliverance 
from  a  servitude  that  is  sometimes  worse  than 
death. 


304  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

Bunny  got  up  restlessly  and  looked  once  again  over 
the  parapet  to  where,  in  the  distance,  a  small  knoll 
stood  up  in  the  sunlight.  Nothing  moved,  no  human 
being  stirred,  but  when  the  time  came  it  must  be 
held  "at  all  costs."  And  yet  he  knew  that  he  had  found 
that  deliverance.  .  .  .  He  had  found  the  things  that 
were  worth  while;  he  had  found  his  manhood. 

He  sat  down  again  and  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"How  much  longer,  sir?"  The  voice  of  a  sergeant 
in  his  ear  made  him  look  up,  and  he  grinned  at  the  old 
and  trusted  friend  beside  him. 

"Twelve  minutes  fifteen  and  a  half  seconds,  Fraser," 
he  answered  cheerily.  "Just  nice  time  for  a  smoke." 

He  offered  his  case  to  the  sergeant  and  lit  a  cigarette 
himself. 

"It's  a  rum  life,  ain't  it,  sir?"  said  the  N.C.O.  after 
a  short  silence.  "Going  out  there,  prancing  over  the 
bally  mud,  and  wondering  if  the  old  Hun  likes  it  any 
more  than  we  do." 

"You're  right,  Fraser;  it's  a  dam'  rum  life."  Bunny 
thoughtfully  stared  in  front  of  him.  "A  dam'  rum 
life."  He  repeated  the  phrase  half  under  his  breath. 

Not  for  the  first  time  did  the  incongruity  of  the 
whole  performance  come  home  to  him.  He  saw  him- 
self as  he  had  come  to  the  battalion  a  year  before, 
utterly  ignorant,  utterly  useless.  He  traced  his  grad- 
ual development  during  that  year  to  what  he  was  now, 
an  officer,  reliable  and  self-reliant,  confident  in  him- 
self and  inspiring  confidence  in  his  men.  He  was 
very  sure  of  himself;  he  knew  he  inspired  confidence 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH    305 

in  them ;  he  knew  they  would  follow  him  wherever  he 
might  lead  them. 

So  many  of  the  different  elements  of  civilian  life 
in  England  had  come  together  under  him,  and  he  had 
watched  their  development,  had  tended  their  growth, 
had  seen  them  fuse  together  in  one  steady  compact 
whole,  and  then  war  had  tested  them,  and  they 
had  not  failed.  Now  was  coming  another  of  war's 
tests,  and  in  his  heart  he  knew  it  would  be  the  supreme 
one  for  him  and  those  he  led. 

Almost  bitterly  he  asked  himself  the  old,  old  ques- 
tion :  "Cui  bono?"  Had  his  loved  platoon  been  welded 
together  only  for  this :  the  little  mound — those  fateful 
words:  "At  all  costs?"  Surely  the  sentiments  of 
unselfishness,  of  playing  the  game,  which  these  men 
had  learned;  surely  the  cheeriness,  the  tails-up  "good 
heart"  outlook  on  life  which  he  had  preached  and 
practised  and  instilled  into  them  could  have  been  better 
utilised  than  keeping  a  damned  mound  "at  all  costs"  ? 
It  seemed  such  utter  waste  of  wonderful  material,  such 
ruin  of  new-planted  but  thriving  grain.  .  .  . 

Two  boots  sticking  out  of  the  earth  on  top  of  the 
trench  in  front  of  him  caught  his  eyes  and  held  them. 
Involuntarily  he  shivered;  those  boots  seemed  to  pos- 
sess such  a  dreadful  finality.  There  was  a  hole  in  one 
of  the  soles;  he  wondered  if  the  man  had  noticed  it 
before  such  trifles  ceased  to  worry  him;  he  wondered 
if  their  late  owner  had  solved  the  Cui  bono  satisfac- 
torily. .  .  . 

Then  he  stopped  wondering  with  a  mental  jerk  and 
shook  himself. 


306  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

This  was  no  time  for  philosophy;  it  was  the  time 
for  action.  For  this  moment  had  he  trained  and 
sweated  his  men ;  for  this  moment  had  he  looked  after 
them,  and  cared  for  them,  and  watched  over  their 
comfort.  The  why  period  belonged  to  the  Bunny 
Smith  of  a  year  ago.  He  forced  himself  to  see  the 
answer,  the  assured,  calm  reply  to  the  waverer's  doubt- 
ful "What's  the  use?"  The  sinking  of  self  in  the 
community  is  only  the  logical  outcome  of  the  sinking 
of  self  in  the  individual;  merely  does  it  affect  larger 
issues.  And  what  is  a  company  where  divisions  are 
concerned?  What  is  a  division  where  armies  are  in 
the  scales?  The  only  thing  that  matters  is  the  side; 
as  long  as  that  is  not  let  down  in  the  great  gamd 
nothing  else  counts. 

To  the  subaltern,  his  platoon;  to  the  C.O.,  his  bat- 
talion; to  the  General,  his  division — each  in  his  own 
sphere  straining  forward  to  the  boundaries  of  his  own 
horizon,  be  they  great  or  small,  each  according  to  the 
measure  of  his  responsibility  playing  for  the  side,  play- 
ing for  the  Empire.  Thus  did  the  glimmerings  of  a 
great  Imperialism  come  to  an  erstwhile  bank  clerk, 
glimmerings  tinged  with  wonder  at  the  size  of  the 
forces  involved — the  magnitude  of  an  horizon  so  im- 
measurably beyond  his  own.  And  with  the  realisation 
came  the  certainty  that  whatever  happened  his  efforts 
had  not  been  wasted.  He  would  have  pulled  his  weight 
in  the  big  game;  in  his  small  sphere  he  would  have 
fulfilled  his  object,  and  no  man  may  do  more. 

The  mound  must  be  held  at  all  costs;  that  was  his 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH    303 

task,   that  was  his   reward.     A  great  pride   swept 
through  him ;  even  so  should  it  be. 

With  a  friendly  nod  towards  the  two  motionless 
boots,  with  a  half-uttered  greeting,  "So  long,  old 
man;  we're  only  just  the  pawns  in  the  game,  but  it's 
a  big  thing  even  to  be  that,"  Bunny  got  over  the  top. 
The  time  for  dreaming  was  past.  Only  a  mound,  a 
dirty  little  lump  of  mud,  filled  his  thoughts. 


Thus  ended  the  education  of  Bunny  Smith,  captain 
and  sometimes  bank  clerk.  You  may  perhaps  have 
seen  it  in  the  paper,  if  not  I  will  supply  the  deficiency. 
It  ran  as  follows : 

"Captain  John  Smith,  late  Royal  Rutlands,  for 
very  conspicuous  gallantry  and  devotion  to  duty.  In 
the  course  of  an  attack  this  officer  was  ordered  to 
hold  a  certain  advanced  position  at  all  costs.  He  suc- 
cessfully resisted  four  separate  counter-attacks  by  the 
enemy,  to  whom  the  position  was  of  great  tactical 
value,  and  then,  running  short  of  ammunition,  al- 
though already  wounded  twice,  rather  than  disobey 
his  orders  he  charged  the  enemy  who  were  massing 
for  a  fifth  counter-attack  with  the  remnants  of  his 
company,  thereby  disorganising  them  so  much  that  the 
attack  did  not  materialise.  When  found  later  by  a 
reconnoitring  patrol,  this  very  gallant  officer  was  sur- 
rounded by  enemy  dead." 

Thus  the  official  account,  which  came  under  the 
heading  of  eight  new  V.C.'s.  Unofficially,  can  you 


308  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

see  the  mound ;  can  you  hear  the  scream  of  the  shells 
and  the  rattle  of  the  machine-guns?  Do  you  get 
Bunny,  and  the  remnants  of  his  men  gathered  round 
him;  do  you  see  him  giving  them  the  last  "tails-up" 
buck;  can  you  hear  his  final  shout,  "The  Royal  Rut- 
lands  will  charge"  ?  Can  you  picture  them  going  into 
the  Hun  and  the  mix-up  there  was,  as  fighting,  curs- 
ing, stabbing  like  fiends,  Bunny's  company  held  the 
mound  at  all  costs?  Can  you  picture  it,  I  say,  for 
God  knows  it  was  a  grand  sight?  And  thus  did  one 
of  the  Bunny  Smiths  play  the  game  for  the  side,  and 
at  the  cost  of  his  life  justify  his  inclusion  in  the 
team. 


In  the  year  of  grace  19 —  many  John  Smiths,  known 
perhaps  to  their  intimates  as  Bunny,  will  stand  at 
the  threshold  of  a  new  life,  the  life  after  the  war. 
They,  too,  will  have  learned  the  lessons  of  playing 
for  the  side,  and  the  responsibility  of  leadership; 
their  test  will  come  then,  not  on  a  mound  held  "at 
all  costs."  And  it  may  be  that  it  will  prove  the  harder 
of  the  two;  there  will  be  less  glory.  .  .  . 

They  will  be  faced  with  a  situation  which  is  bound 
to  be  acute,  and  only  their  loyal  co-operation  will  en- 
able the  men  at  the  helm  to  steer  the  ship  to  safety. 
The  side  will  be  the  same,  the  great  side  of  Empire, 
only  the  setting  of  the  fight  will  be  different.  But 
unless  each  Bunny  Smith  pulls  his  weight  and  brings 
to  his  civilian  life  the  lessons  he  has  learned  in  the 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH    309 

great  gume  over  the  water,  the  lessons  of  true  leader- 
ship and  unselfishness,  it  may  be  that  the  snarling 
vapourings  of  an  ignorant  few  will  precipitate  a  bitter 
class  war  more  dreadful  and  terrible  than  anything 
in  France. 

Just  at  present  it  would  seem  as  if  a  wave  of 
strange  formulae  had  flooded  the  world ;  dreamers  arise, 
each  with  his  own  particular  recipe  for  universal  hap- 
piness. Each  sect  gathers  to  itself  its  own  little  band 
of  followers,  and  having  taken  possession  of  the  high- 
est dunghill  it  can  find  proceeds  to  try  and  outcrow 
its  neighbours.  And  all  of  them  turn,  sooner  or 
later,  on  the  subject  of  wealth — on  the  fact  that  one 
man  has  more  money,  or  land,  or  possessions  than 
another. 

It  is  certainly  not  the  writer's  intention  to  discuss 
these  truly  wonderful  doctrines.  In  every  community 
equality  is  an  impossibility,  and  has  always  been  found 
an  impossibility.  Equality  of  wealth  to-day  would 
merely  be  a  throw-back  to  a  primeval  state,  and  as 
impossible  to  maintain  now  as  it  was  then.  Were 
it  not  so  the  community  would  atrophy  and  die,  since 
without  inequality  of  material  possessions  there  can 
be  no  incentive  for  material  work.  The  sole  value  of 
money  is  buying  work,  nothing  more,  nothing  less, 
though  frequently  gold  is  looked  upon  as  possessing 
an  intrinsic  value  of  its  own.  But  you  cannot  eat 
gold,  you  cannot  drink  gold;  possessing  nothing  but 
gold  assuredly  you  die. 

Happiness  is  not  attainable  that  way.  A  man's  hap- 
piness lies  in  what  he  is,  not  in  what  he  has,  and  the 


310  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

fact  should  never  be  forgotten.  It  is  Utopian,  of 
course,  an  ideal  impossible  of  fruition,  that  disregard- 
ing of  material  possessions.  .  .  . 

And  yet,  if  there  is  anything  in  the  great  concep- 
tion of  the  Kingdom  of  God  on  earth,  what  other  state 
of  society  can  then  be  in  existence?  Each  individual 
unfettered  by  sordid  worry  over  material  issues,  free 
to  develop  his  own  personality  to  the  maximum ;  each 
soul  free  to  open  and  expand  a  little  nearer  to  per- 
fection. And  thus  will  the  world  cease  to  see  through 
a  glass  darkly.  .  .  . 

But  now  such  ideas  are  vain ;  all  that  one  may  do  is 
to  peer  into  the  choking  mists  of  rancour  and  strife, 
and  pray  that  the  orange  glow  of  hope,  which  flickers 
sometimes  from  the  depths  for  the  eyes  of  faith  to 
see,  may  not  be  clouded  more  impenetrably  by  our 
stupidity. 

The  Kingdom  of  God,  the  brotherhood  of  nations, 
is  far  away  from  us  to-day.  And  yet,  perhaps,  not 
so  far.  Already  have  we  an  Empire,  a  free  Empire, 
a  commonwealth,  comprising  a  third  of  the  globe 
joined  together  by  the  silken  bands  of  a  wonderful 
sentiment,  which  are  more  powerful  than  any  steel  fet- 
ters of  servitude.  Voluntarily,  willingly,  has  that 
great  Empire  come  forward  to  fight  the  menace  to 
freedom,  the  power  that  would  have  put  for  ever  into 
the  pit  that  orange  glow  of  hope.  That  Empire  real- 
ises the  difference  between  our  leadership  and  German 
autocracy;  they  realise  that  we  develop  where  the 
German  makes  slaves;  that  we  encourage  and  help 
their  aspirations  where  the  German  crushes  them ;  that 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH    311 

we  make  individuals,  where  the  Germans  make  auto- 
matons. And  our  Empire  knows  and  is  content.  .  .  . 

But  never  let  it  be  forgotten  that,  as  in  the  regiment, 
the  ideals  are  its  traditions,  its  colours;  so,  in  our 
Empire,  the  great  central  ideal  is  His  Majesty  the 
King  and  the  sentiment  attaching  to  his  person.  Should 
— which  God  forbid — anything  happen  to  lower  the 
prestige  of  that  sentiment;  should  any  utterly  foolish 
and  inconsequent  persons  succeed  by  word  or  deed  in 
lowering  the  morale  which  the  Empire  possesses,  and 
which  is  induced  and  kept  inviolate  by  the  leadership 
of  the  King,  that  real  leadership,  only  in  a  far  vaster 
sense,  that  is  possessed  by  the  good  regimental  officer, 
then  there  will  be  a  danger,  and  a  very  real  danger, 
of  this  great  commonwealth  of  ours  disrupting  and 
throwing  once  again  into  the  infinitely  remote  future 
the  glorious  dream  of  all  mankind — the  kingdom  of  all 
the  nations  in  harmony. 

And  to  come  down  from  dreams  to  mundane  details. 
There  is  no  short  cut  to  happiness,  only  by  slow  and 
painful  steps  shall  we  reach  our  goal.  It  is  the  men 
who  have  found  their  manhood  in  the  game  of  life 
and  death  who  must  see  that  those  steps  do  not  falter 
and  turn  back;  it  is  the  men  who  have  suffered  and 
endured  for  freedom's  sake  who  will  have  the  right 
to  see  that  their  sacrifice  is  not  in  vain. 

They  know  that  unless  everyone  pulls  together  the 
side  will  suffer;  they  know  that  one  clique  or  section 
cannot  better  itself  at  the  expense  of  another  without 
the  welfare  of  the  whole  being  retarded.  Moreover — 
and  this  is  perhaps  the  greatest  step  forward  of  all 


312  THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 

due  to  the  war — the  old  ideas  of  the  classes  and  the 
masses  have  gone  for  ever  from  the  men  who  have 
fought.  The  working  man  has  fought  by  the  side  of 
the  "sahib";  the  working  man  has  been  led  by  the 
sahib,  and  in  the  process  he  has  found  out  that  his  old 
ideas  were  wrong.  He  has  suddenly  realised  that  it 
is  not  birth  which  stands  between  him  and  a  fuller 
freedom;  in  fact,  it  has  come  home  to  him  with  a 
force  which  surprised  him  that,  for  all  his  boasted 
pre-war  freedom,  combination  under  a  real  leader  can 
be  in  very  truth  freer  than  individualism.  And  he 
has  formed  his  own  ideas  as  to  the  qualifications  nec- 
essary for  real  leadership. 

He  has  at  last  grasped  the  fact  that  between  the 
slavery  of  the  profiteer — who  is  the  real  enemy  of  all 
progress — and  the  leadership  he  has  found  in  this  war 
there  is  nothing  in  common.  A  man  on  one  occasion 
said  to  me :  "If  all  business  at  home  was  run  on  the 
same  lines  as  a  good  regiment  there  would  be  no  need 
for  any  trades  unions."  And  he  was  right.  Trade 
unionism  is  the  weapon — the  only  weapon — of  the 
masses  against  the  masters ;  it  is  an  anachronism  when 
used  as  a  combination  of  a  free  community  against 
its  leader. 

We  cannot  abolish  trades  unions :  that  is  utterly  out 
of  the  question.  But  if  we  are  to  reap  the  full  benefit 
of  this  war,  there  must  come  a  gradual  diminution 
of  their  necessity.  It  must  become  an  unthinkable 
thing  that  the  workers  of  the  country  have  to  band 
together  and  use  force  to  obtain  from  their  employers 
fair  and  just  treatment;  it  must  become  equally  un- 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  BUNNY  SMITH    313 

thinkable  that  they  should  exceed  the  bounds  of  fair- 
ness in  their  demands.  True  co-operation  must  be 
used  in  every  business  concern ;  a  financial  and  material 
co-operation  actuated  by  the  vital  mainsprings  of 
human  sympathy  and  understanding. 

And  surely  if  that  great  band  who  have  learned 
the  lesson  of  playing  for  the  side  in  the  playground 
of  Death,  will  not  forget  it  when  the  scene  is  shifted 
to  the  battlefield  of  life,  we  shall  have  advanced  a 
step  nearer  to  the  wonderful  vision  of  the  future.  Out 
of  this  war  we  have  got  a  knowledge  of  the  other  man 
which  was  utterly  lacking  before.  Australians,  Cana- 
dians, South  Africans,  are  they  not  all  Britishers,  with 
Britain's  ideals  of  freedom,  and  Britain's  ideals  of 
playing  the  game?  There  is  room  in  all  parts  of 
our  great  Empire  for  men  who  are  men,  to  work  out 
their  lives  and  find  the  happiness  which  comes  from 
doing,  not  having.  There  must  be  no  recurrence  of 
the  pre-war  conditions  of  more  men  than  jobs  in  Eng- 
land and  more  jobs  than  men  in  the  Colonies.  And 
when  by  real  co-operation  we  have  dissipated  the  fog 
of  mistrust  and  class  hatred  in  our  own  lands,  when 
everyone  in  that  far-flung  Empire  is  pulling  together 
for  the  good  of  the  whole,  then,  and  not  till  then, 
shall  we  have  our  Empire  consolidated.  It  will  be  time 
enough  then  to  look  round  and  begin  to  consider  the 
final  and  stupendous  dream  of  world  nationalisation — 
the  Kingdom  of  God  on  earth. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


'•JJEC   21S53UI 


AUG2     1955  U 
MAR  25  1969  •; 

RECEIVED 


LOAM 


P  13  1988 


LD  21-100m-7,'52(A2528sl6)476 


YB 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 

COOS3T71™ 


